TOOMEY  AND   OTHERS 


The  shambling  old  fellows  were  proceeding  very 
slowly. 


TOOMEY  AND 
OTHERS 


BY 

ROBERT   SHACKLETON 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  -=>  —  «=.«=.  1900 


Copyright,  1900,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


TROW    DIRECTORY 
PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

Page 

How  Toomey  Willed  his  Government  Job  1 
A  Burial  by  Friendless  Post  ....  29 
Over  the  River  from  Blackwell's  ...  57 

A  Police  Court  Episode 85 

The  Experiment  of  Frederica  ....  93 
The  Misery  in  Mis'  Randolph's  Knee  .  127 

Before  the  Archbishop 151 

The  Promotion  of  Berkwater    .     .     .     .18} 

On  Cherry  Hill 205 

A  Proposal  During  Shiva 215 


1 702159 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  shambling  old  fellows  were  proceeding 
very  slowly Frontispiece 

Page 

"  But  he's  given  you  all  the  money  straight 

enough,"    said   Duggan 8 

"  But  I'm  only  behind  because  I've  been  out 
of  work,"  protested  Duggan 16 

"  I  think  I'll  keep  it  awhile  myself,"  he  said.   .     24 

William  Morrison     .     .     .     was  now  serving 

his  second  term 37 

A  few  of  the  old  soldiers    .    .    .    looked  after 

the  little  procession 50 

"  I  guess  it's  another  advertisement,"  he  said.  60 

The  two  moved  to  the  front  of  the  line.     .     .  81 

As  a  child  she  had  danced  on  the  sidewalks.  .  100 

The  first  snow  fell 119 


viii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

At  the  door  she  gave  a  backward  look.  .  .  .  132 
The  door  of  that  wagon  swung  open.  .  .  .  148 

While  the  water  surged  against  the  stone  re 
taining  wrall 159 

Still  she  prayed,  bowed  before  the  altar.  .  .  179 
"  It  is  all  a  mistake — worse  than  a  mistake."  191 

"  Yes,  I  was  promoted !     But  I  told  General 

Sherman  !  " 202 

He  .  .  .  walked  straight  up  to  the  girl.  .  212 
Their  patriarchal  faces  half  in  shadow.  .  .  218 
She  peered  between  the  iron  bars  of  the  fence.  230 

Weidberg     .     .     .     slunk  a  little  away  from 
her 240 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  firmly  in  his.    .  253 


HOW   TOOMEY   WILLED    HIS 
GOVERNMENT  JOB 


HOW    TOOMEY    WILLED    HIS    GOV 
ERNMENT  JOB 

"  ¥  BEING  in  sound  mind  and  body,  do 
1,  hereby  resign  my  position  in  the 
Custom-house ;  and,  being  after  dying,  as 
I  fully  believe,  and  of  sound  mind  and 
body  as  aforesaid,  do  hereby  will  my  job, 
which  I  have  held  so  long,  to  my  good 
friend  Dennis  Duggan  ;  and  I  hope  Michael 
McShea  will  agree  to  this,  and  I  hereby 
ask  him  to  give  the  job  to  Duggan,  this 
being  my  last  will." 

It  was  in  broken  sentences,  for  he  was 
very  weak,  that  old  Toomey  slowly  dic 
tated  the  document,  and  it  was  with  evi 
dent  pride  in  the  composition.  "  You  see 
how  careful  I  am  to  put  that  in  about  be 
ing  in  sound  body  and  mind?"  he  said, 
as  Duggan  slowly  wrote  down  the  words. 
"  It's  points  like  them  that  spoils  many 
3 


4  HOW   TOOMEY    WILLED 

a  will,  Duggan ;  but  you  see  I  look  out 
for  you — I  look  out  for  you,  Dennis." 

"Yes,"  said  Duggan,  sighing  deeply; 
and  he  caught  the  eye  of  the  comely  Mrs. 
Toomey,  so  soon  to  be  a  widow,  and  she 
sighed  mournfully  in  return.  "  Yes,  Too 
mey,  and  there's  only  one  point  more.  It 
isn't  signed  yet,  and  many  a  will's  been 
lost  through  not  being  signed — many  a 
will's  been  lost  through  that.  Will  you 
sign  it  now,  Toomey  ?  " 

Toomey  answered  with  a  touch  of  irrita 
tion.  "  Oh,  I'm  not  so  near  going  as  that, 
Dennis.  I've  life  in  me  yet,  even  though 
my  time  may  be  near  at  hand." 

"  The — the — doctor —  '  sobbed  Mrs. 
Toomey.  She  was  thinking  of  the  doctor's 
prophecy  as  to  the  few  hours  of  life  re 
maining  to  her  husband.  Now,  Toomey 
never  liked  to  hear  Mrs.  Toomey  sob,  and 
so,  to  divert  her  mind  from  her  grief,  he 
said  :  "  Here,  Duggan,  give  me  that  pen 
cil,  and  after  I  sign  it  Mary'll  sign  it  as  a 
witness."  And  so  Toomey  signed  the 
will,  and  Mary  witnessed  it  ;  and  then  he 
signed  another  will,  giving  to  his  wife  all 
of  his  property  "  both  really  and  in  per- 


HIS   GOVERNMENT  JOB  5 

son,"  as  he  expressed  it ;  and  then  he  lay 
back  wearily,  and  his  face  grew  ashen  pale. 
Little  by  little  he  gasped  out : 

"  It'll  be  all  right  now — it'll  be  all  right. 
There's  nobody  to  dispute  the  money  with 
you,  Mary,  but  brother  Tim's  children  and 
my  cousins.  But  you'll  file  the  will  at 
court,  and  there's  $2,300  in  the  three 
banks,  and  you'll  get  it.  And  the  other 
will,  Duggan,  it  don't  need  to  be  filed  in 
any  court,  for  it  concerns  a  job  that's 
nobody's  business  but  McShea's  and 
mine." 

His  earthly  business  thus  concluded,  he 
turned  his  face  toward  the  open  window, 
and  looked  out  across  the  tenement  street, 
and  listened  to  the  myriad  of  sounds  that 
floated  up  to  him.  And  again  Duggan 
dolefully  sighed,  and  again  sighed  the 
comely  widow  that  was  to  be.  It  was  a 
hot  evening  in  midsummer,  following  a 
torrid  day ;  and  Eldridge  Street  is  one  of 
the  most  densely  populated  neighborhoods 
of  that  most  densely  crowded  portion  of 
New  York.  Toomey  had  lived  in  his 
simple  rooms,  on  the  top  floor  of  his  par 
ticular  tenement,  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 


6  HOW   TOOMEY    WILLED 

tury,  and  had  grown  to  love  all  of  the 
neighborhood  sights  and  sounds. 

"  Who's  any  happier  than  me  ?"  he  was 
wont  to  say.  And  to-night,  as  he  looked 
and  listened,  the  thought  came  to  him, 
more  bitterly  than  at  any  previous  time 
in  the  course  of  his  illness,  that  it  was 
very  hard  to  go  away  and  leave  all  this. 
For  many  classes  and  conditions  go  to 
the  making  up  of  the  life  of  the  great  East 
Side.  There  is  poverty  there,  and  there 
is  inconceivable  crowding,  and  there  is 
lack  of  food  and  air,  and  there  is  un 
speakable  misery  ;  but  there  is  also  much 
of  happiness,  and  there  are  many  who 
have  plenty  of  money  for  comforts  and 
gayeties.  Squalor  and  prosperity  are  con 
stant  neighbors,  not  only  on  the  same 
streets,  but  in  the  same  huge  tenements. 

Toomey  looked  at  the  scores  of  people 
who  clung  sprawlingly  on  the  iron  fire- 
escapes  and  balconies  that  gridironed  the 
fronts  of  the  buildings — and  gridirons  they 
in  very  truth  still  were,  as  the  sun,  after 
baking  them  to  a  furious  heat,  was  but  a 
short  time  set,  and  the  iron  was  still  warm. 
But  the  population  of  the  street,  men  and 


HIS    GOVERNMENT  JOB  7 

women  and  children,  were  mostly  am 
bulatory,  and  moved  aimlessly  about,  and 
shifted  back  and  forth  on  the  pavement 
and  sidewalks  below.  The  shuffling  of 
feet,  the  chirring  hum  of  talk,  the  screams 
of  children  as  they  played  together  or 
savagely  tore  at  each  other  in  wrath,  came 
up  to  Toomey,  and  he  thought  again  of 
how  sad  it  was  to  lose  it  all.  To  a  stranger 
the  sounds  would  have  been  an  indistin 
guishable  medley,  but  the  practised  ear  of 
Toomey  could  disassociate  each  from  each. 

He  heard  the  vibrant  clink  of  glasses  in 
the  near-by  saloon.  He  heard  the  sinister 
clang  of  the  patrol  wagon,  while  it  was 
still  two  blocks  away,  but  to  him  it  was 
but  one  of  the  many  sounds  that  united 
to  enhance  the  attractiveness  of  the  street. 
"  I  wonder  if  it's  Tim  Hogan,  and  if  he's 
been  beating  his  wife  again,"  he  murmured. 
Above  the  confused  dissonance  he  caught 
the  distant  sounds  of  a  Salvation  Army 
squad,  and  gently  smiled  as  he  listened  to 
the  notes  of  "  There's  a  Land  that  is  Fairer 
than  Day." 

The  tune  ceased,  and  he  half  whispered  : 
"  Yes,  and  that's  where  I'm  going.  And 


HOW   TOOMEY    WILLED 


I  only  hope   the    district  leader  up  there 
will  be  as  square  as  Michael  McShea,  for 
if  he  is  I'll  be  all  right."    He  paused  a  mo- 
'\S\  %;  merit.  "They're 

":^>^:>>  kneeling  now," 

he  said.  And 
his  wife  and 
Duggan  looked 
at  each  other 
and  commiser- 
atingly  shook 
their  heads, 
thus  mutely 
agreeing  that 
poor  Toomey 
was  becoming 
delirious. 

"But he's  giv 
en  you  all  the 
money  straight 
enough,"  said 
Duggan,  draw 
ing  close  to 

her.     "  Yes  ;  and  he's  given  you  the  job," 
she  responded. 

From  the  corner    of   a  fire-escape  diag 
onally  opposite   shone  the  fitful   glow  of 


HIS   GOVERNMENT  JOB  9 

a  pipe,  and  Toomey  knew  that  Irene 
Baumann  and  her  lover  were  there,  that 
corner  of  that  fire-escape  having  been 
adopted  as  their  own,  and  yielded  by  the 
other  tenement  dwellers  through  court 
esy,  as  they  all  knew  that  Irene's  mother 
objected  to  the  girl's  going  with  the 
young  man  to  the  parks  or  recreation 
piers.  Against  the  fronts  of  the  buildings 
huge  shadows,  cast  by  the  street-lights,  gro 
tesquely  flung  themselves.  The  notes  of 
a  twangy  guitar  floated  in  from  a  rear 
tenement. 

Old  Toomey's  eyes  wearily  closed.  "  It's 
all  so  good.  I  hate  to  leave  it.  And 
what  will — they — do  without  me  ?  "  He 
was  not,  however,  thinking  of  his  wife  as 
he  said  this,  but  of  many  of  the  needy  to 
whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  little 
kindnesses;  but  even  in  his  whispered  self- 
communion  he  did  not  mention  any  names, 
for  he  was  always  reticent  about  the  good 
that  he  did. 

Toomey  had  for  twenty-three  years  held 
a  position  in  the  Custom-house.  It  was 
not  a  place  of  great  consequence.  It  was 
only  that  of  a  packer  and  weigher,  and 


io  HOW   TOOMEY    WILLED 

it  had  only  yielded  the  sum  of  $725  a 
year.  But  in  his  own  estimation  and  in 
that  of  his  friends  there  was  a  certain  dig 
nity  attaching  to  the  position,  more  than 
to  that  of  street-sweeper  or  assistant  jani 
tor  of  a  public  building,  for  example,  and 
so  he  had  been  the  object  of  considerable 
good-natured  envy,  which  had,  of  course, 
been  enhanced  by  the  length  of  time  that 
he  had  been  able  to  hold  the  place.  There 
were  many  who  would  prize  the  job,  now 
that  he  was  giving  it  up. 

"  Duggan,  I've  willed  you  a  good  thing," 
he  whispered,  faintly,  turning  his  head 
from  the  window.  Duggan  bent  over  him 
in  deep  concern.  "  Will  there  be  any 
trouble  about  my  getting  it?"  he  asked. 
Toomey  tried  to  shake  his  head.  "  How 
could  there  be  ?  "  he  answered.  "  McShea's 
never  had  anything  against  me  !" 

Duggan  tried  to  make  conversation, 
clumsily  feeling  this  much  to  be  incum 
bent  upon  him,  after  such  a  gift,  even 
in  the  presence  of  soon-coming  death. 
"  Who's  the  Collector  of  Customs  in  New 
York  now  ? "  he  asked ;  but  Toomey 
answered,  with  a  touch  of  impatience : 


HIS    GOVERNMENT   JOB  11 

"I — don't — just  remember;  I — don't — 
know — as — I  ever  knew." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  replied  Duggan, 
soothingly.  "  Of  course  not.  You  never 
had  any  reason  to.  I'll  ask  McShea,  if  I 
ever  need  to  know.  He's  been  district 
leader  for  a  great  many  years,  hasn't  he, 
Toomey  ?  And  it's  many  years  that  you've 
held  your  job  under  him." 

"  A  long  time,  and  always  gave  McShea 
the  fullest  satisfaction,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Too 
mey.  "  But  McShea'll  get  another  good 
man  when  Duggan  takes  your  place,"  she 
added,  as  she  dried  her  eyes  on  a  hem  of 
her  skirt.  Toomey,  although  dying,  looked 
a  trifle  annoyed,  and  frowned  ever  so  little, 
but  the  other  two,  looking  at  each  other  in 
mutual  commiseration,  did  not  notice  it. 

"  And  who  was  President  of  the  United 
States  when  you  first  got  the  job  ?"  Dug 
gan  continued,  still  under  the  impression 
that  the  circumstances  of  such  a  gift  de 
manded  appreciative  conversation  from 
him. 

"  I — don't — know  ;  but  McShea  was — 
Toomey  stopped,  and  could  not  complete 
the  sentence. 


12  HOW    TOOMEY    WILLED 

"  Yes,  yes,  poor  fellow.  You've  served 
under  a  good  many  presidents  and  a  good 
many  collectors.  Do  you  remember  who 
was  the  Collector  of  Customs,  in  this  city, 
when  you  first  got  your  place  ?  " 

"  No.  I  never — paid — any — attention — 
to  presidents  or  collectors,"  the  dying  man 
whispered.  "  My  district  leader  was  the 
only  man  I  ever  thought  of." 

"  And  that's  just  so,"  put  in  Mrs.Toomey. 
"  Such  things  as  collectors  or  presidents 
never  makes  no  difference.  You  must  al 
ways  remember  that,  Dennis.  It's  the 
district  leader  that's  the  one  to  look  out 
for.  Whatever  he  says,  always  goes.  Keep 
solid  with  McShea,  Dennis,  and  you'll 

hold  the  job  as  long  as "     But  here  she 

again  had  recourse  to  the  hem  of  her  skirt. 
Toomey  noticed  this,  and  hurriedly  strove 
to  create  a  diversion.  "If  I  was  you,  Dug- 
gan,  I'd  get  after  McShea  right  off.  It  '11 
be  all  right  if  he  knows  I  want  you  to  have 
the  job,  and  have  put  it  in  my  will,  but  he 
may  hear  of  my  being  sick,  and — 

His  face  again  grew  very  white,  and  he 
became  so  weak  that  it  seemed  as  if  death 
was  near  at  hand.  The  doctor,  who  at 


HIS    GOVERNMENT   JOB  13 

that  moment  arrived,  stepped  briskly  to  his 
bedside,  while  Duggan,  spurred  on  by  the 
fear  of  losing  his  job,  hurried  off  to  find 
McShea.  At  the  foot  of  the  long  series  of 
stairways  he  met  the  priest. 

Duggan  found  the  district  leader  in  a 
saloon  on  the  Bowery,  below  the  rooms  of 
the  political  club  of  the  district.  With  a 
great  deal  of  trepidation,  for  he  had  always 
held  the  great  man  in  awe,  he  stepped  up 
to  him.  "  Toomey's  dying,  and  he's  made 
this  will,"  he  blurted  out. 

McShea,  leaning  against  the  bar,  slowly 
read  the  paper  that  Duggan  nervously 
poked  up  into  his  face,  and  then  looked 
back  at  Duggan  with  much  of  dubiety. 
McShea  was  very  stout,  with  grizzled  hair, 
deep-set  eyes,  bulbous  nose,  and  firm  lips. 
His  face  at  first  sight  seemed  ordinary, 
but  a  second  glance  showed  that  it  ex 
pressed  capacity  of  an  unusual  order,  and 
you  began  to  realize  how  it  was  that  he 
had  been  able  to  hold  the  position  of  dis 
trict  leader  in  his  assembly  district  for 
nearly  thirty  years. 

For  a  district  leader,  to  be  successful, 
must  be  a  man  of  determination  and  abil- 


14  HOW   TOOMEY   WILLED 

ity,  full  of  tact  and  resourcefulness.  He 
is  the  head  of  his  clan,  and  his  clan  is 
composed  of  every  voter  of  his  party  in 
the  district.  He  sees  to  it  that  his  tribes 
men  have  their  full  proportion  of  city  jobs, 
both  transient  and  of  the  more  permanent 
character.  For  instance,  when  a  big  hotel 
burns  down,  and  many  lives  are  lost,  and 
the  city  puts  hundreds  of  laborers  at  work 
clearing  the  ruins  in  the  search  for  bodies, 
each  district  leader  in  the  city — if  his  is 
the  party  in  charge  of  the  city's  politics — 
hurries  the  unemployed  men  of  his  district 
to  the  contractor,  and  the  contractor  must 
fairly  balance  the  claims  of  all,  or  else  he 
is  sure  to  obtain  no  further  jobs  from  the 
city. 

When  a  voter  is  sick,  the  district  leader 
is  expected  to  see  to  it  that  he  is  cared  for. 
When  the  voter  is  in  need,  his  need  must 
be  relieved,  or  else  an  order  must  be  ob 
tained,  transferring  the  sufferer  to  the  Alms- 
house  or  a  public  hospital.  The  head  of 
the  district  clan  has  all  the  responsibilities 
of  a  tribal  chief.  And  for  the  many  bene 
fits,  actual  and  potential,  of  which  he 
stands  as  the  source,  he  expects  an  un- 


HIS   GOVERNMENT  JOB  15 

questioning  return.  The  men  must  vote 
right  at  every  election,  and  those  who  aim 
to  get  the  most  benefits  must  keep  up  their 
membership  in  the  local  political  club. 

McShea  looked  at  Duggan  doubtfully. 
He  set  his  glass  down,  and  it  stood  in  a 
beery  ring.  He  slowly  wiped  his  lips  on 
a  towel  that  hung  beneath  the  bar.  Sev 
eral  members  of  the  district  club,  who  had 
been  sitting  at  din«y  tables,  lounged  for- 

O  O*"  '  ^> 

ward.  They  cast  hostile  glances  at  Dug 
gan,  who  nervously  asked  them  all  to 
drink.  They  promptly  did  so,  and  then, 
putting  their  glasses  down  in  five  beery 
rings,  and  wiping  five  mouths  on  the  hang 
ing  towels,  resumed  their  hostile  looks. 

"  Duggan  wants  Toomey's  place. 
You've  all  heard  he's  very  sick.  Well, 
Toomey's  willed  his  job  to  Duggan,"  said 
McShea,  in  curt  explanation.  There  were 
times  when,  contrary  to  his  usual  habit  of 
deciding  alone,  he  chose  to  submit  ques 
tions  to  his  retainers,  and  the  matter  of 
Toomey's  job  he  felt  to  be  a  fitting  one 
for  such  a  submission.  He  smiled  grimly 
as  he  noted  the  angry  clouding  of  the  five 
countenances.  Duggan  weakly  told  the 


16  HOW   TOOMEY    WILLED 

barkeeper  to  "  ask  the  gentlemen  what  they 
would  have,"  but  this  time  they  all  refused 
to  drink,  and  scowled  upon  him  in  a  dark 
ling  circle. 

"  We  heard  that  Toomey  might  die," 
said  McShea,  "  and  there  are  forty-two 
members  of  the  club  who  are  applicants 
for  his  job." 

"  And  each  of  us  is  a  man  as  has  paid 
his  dues  square  up,"  put  in  one  of  the 
men. 

"  But  I'm  only  behind  because  I've 
been  out  of  work,"  protested  Duggan ; 
"  and  I'll  pay  up  all  my  back  dues  out  of 
my  first  month's  pay." 

The  circle  sniffed.  "  When  you  get 
the  job,"  said  one.  The  circle  laughed, 
and  Duggan  flushed  with  mortification. 
McShea  looked  on,  judicially  contempla 
tive.  "  When's  Toomey  likely  to  die  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  The  doctor  says  to-night'll  be  the  last 
— that  he'll  sure  go  before  morning,"  re 
plied  Duggan.  "  And  that's  why  he 
wanted  me  to  see  you  at  once  about  his 
job." 

"  That's  bad,"    said    McShea.      "  Poor 


But  I'm  only  behind  because  I've  been  out  of  work," 
protested  Duggan. 


HIS   GOVERNMENT   JOB  19 

fellow !  I  didn't  know  he  was  quite  so 
sick  as  that.  I'll  go  up  and  see  him  to 
night." 

"  But  about  his  job — "  began  Duggan 
again,  persistently. 

The  district  leader's  patience  gave  way. 
He  had  been  somewhat  embarrassed  by 
the  forty-two  applications,  and  the  diffi 
culty  of  deciding  so  as  to  make  no  ene 
mies,  and  he  was  really  annoyed  that  this 
will  should  further  complicate  the  situa 
tion.  He  knew  that  many  would  believe 
that  Toomey'slast  will  should  be  respected, 
and  he  also  knew  that  there  would  be  in 
evitable  dissatisfaction  should  the  desira 
ble  job  be  given  to  Duggan,  who  had 
been  derelict  with  his  membership  and 
dues.  He  turned  on  Duggan  sharply. 

"  Why  didn't  you  apply  to  the  Presi 
dent  ?  Don't  you  know  this  is  a  job  in 
the  United  States  Custom-house?  What 
have  I  got  to  do  with  it,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

Duggan  looked  at  him,  open-mouthed. 

"  You're  the  district  leader,  and — and 
Toomey  always  said — 

Still  more  irritated,  McShea  interrupted 
him.  "  And  don't  you  know  that  at  least 


20  HOW   TOOMEY   WILLED 

the  Collector  of  Customs  is  the  head  of  his 
own  department  here,  and  that  he's  got 
all  the  say  in  such  matters  ?  I'm  the  dis 
trict  leader  ?  Yes  !  But  what  have  I  got 
to  do  with  all  you  fellows,  except  to  keep 
track  of  your  meetings  and  the  way  you 
vote  ?  Do  you  expect  me  to  settle  every 
question  that  comes  up  ?  Take  that  will 
to  the  Collector,  and  see  if  he'll  give  you 
the  job!" 

Duggan's  mouth  was  open  wider  than 
ever,  and  the  jaws  of  the  other  five  also 
dropped.  The  idea,  thus  propounded  by 
their  leader,  awed  them.  They  exchanged 
glances  of  dumb  amazement,  and  every 
man  spat  solemnly  into  the  big  wooden 
cuspidore.  Duggan  was  the  first  to  re 
cover  himself.  "Ah,  you're  just  guyin'  us! 
There's  nobody  bigger'n  the  district  leader. 
Whatever  you  say  goes,  and  there  ain't  no 
collector  going  to  say  a  word.  See  ?  " 

McShea  deigned  to  unbend.  "  What'll 
it  be  ?  "  he  said.  And  the  line,  including 
Duggan,  straightened  up,  and  seven  el 
bows  simultaneously  arose. 

"  And  now,  Duggan,  you  go  back  to 
Toomey.  You  can  tell  him  that  theques- 


HIS    GOVERNMENT  JOB  21 

tion  of  who  gets  his  job  must  be  left  to  a 
vote  of  the  club.  There's  too  many  mem 
bers  who  have  paid  their  dues  and  want 
the  job,  and  who  told  me  so  before  I 
heard  of  his  will,  to  let  me  decide  on  .the 
matter  without  giving  them  a  chance  to 
be  heard." 

"  But  Toomey  thought — 

"  Never  you  mind,  just  now,  what 
Toomey  thought  !  You  go  along,  and 
we'll  see  what  can  be  done." 

"  If  it's  going  to  be  left  to  us,"  put  in 
one  of  the  men  with  a  sour  grin,  "  why, 
you  can  tell  Toomey  that  I  want  the  job 
myself."  "  And  me,  too  !  "  cried  another, 
as  the  swinging  screen  hit  the  disappearing 
Duggan  in  the  back.  "  And  we've  all 
paid  our  dues  reg'lar  !  " 

The  crestfallen  Duggan  did  not  hurry 
back,  and  when  he  reached  Toomey's 
tenement  both  the  doctor  and  the  priest 
had  gone.  Toomey,  fully  prepared  for 
death  by  bodily  and  spiritual  ministrations, 
was  talking  with  his  wife.  He  had  been 
told  that  he  was  unexpectedly  holding  his 
strength,  and  that  there  might  still  be  a 
leeway  of  half  a  day  or  so.  This  had 


22  HOW   TOOMEY   WILLED 

cheered  him,  and  his  eyes  were  brighter 
as  he  glanced  out  of  the  window,  and  he 
feebly  hummed  in  unison  with  the  guitar 
that  some  one  was  still  twanging,  out  of 
tune,  in  the  rear  tenement. 

"  There's  the  Aarons  going  to  bed  on 
the  corner  of  the  roof.  It's  a  wonder, 
with  all  their  children,  that  none  of  them 
ever  falls  over  the  edge!  And  there's 
Irene  Baumann's  young  man  going.  He 
always  goes  at  half-past  nine  sharp,  for  he 
works  in  a  gas-house  and  has  to  be  there 
at  ten.  And  there's  the  patrol  gong  again  ! 
I'll  bet  it's  after  Tim  Hogan  this  time ! 
I  wonder  if  the  judge'll  send  him  to  the 
Island  or  let  him  off  with  a  fine !  " 

His  eyes  were  alight  with  eagerness,  but 
a  broken  sob  from  his  wife  recalled  him  to 
a  realization  of  the  fact  that  in  all  proba 
bility  he  was  not  going  to  be  on  hand  to 
know  how  the  case  would  be  decided. 

"  Don't  cry,  Mary.  And  don't  let  me 
dying  make  you  very  unhappy.  You've 
got  all  the  money — and — I  want  you  to  be 
sure — after  a  while — not  to  be — lonely. 
There's  other  good  men — and  maybe — 
after  a  good  while " 


HIS   GOVERNMENT  JOB  23 

"You  were  always  so  thoughtful  for 
me,"  she  sobbingly  spluttered.  "  And,  if 
you  really  mean  it,  and  want  me  to,  I  think 
I'll  do  as  you  tell  me  to  !  " 

"Ah!  "  murmured  Toomey.  And  then 
he  again  lay  very  still,  listening  to  the 
noises  of  the  street,  for  in  midsummer  the 
East  Side  never  really  goes  to  sleep.  The 
noises  were,  however,  gradually  changing 
in  character,  and  lights  were  flitting  about 
in  the  tenements  across  the  way.  More 
and  more  came  the  realization  of  all  that 
he  was  about  to  lose,  and  he  answered  in 
monosyllables  several  questions  tearfully 
put  to  him  by  his  wife.  And  then  came 
in  the  disappointed  Duggan. 

"  McShea  won't  let  me  have  the  job ! 
He  says  there's  too  many  asked  for  it  be 
fore  he  knew  of  your  will !  " 

"  Won't  let  me  will  my  own  property 
as  I  want  to !  "  exclaimed  the  dying  man. 
"  A  job  I've  held  for  over  twenty  years  ! " 
He  sat  up  in  the  bed,  disregarding  Mrs. 
Toomey 's  frightened  expostulations. 

"No,  he  won't!"  said  Duggan.  Too 
mey  put  one  foot  over  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
"  I'll  go  and  see  him  myself! ''  he  said. 


24  HOW   TOOMEY   WILLED 

"But  you're  dying!  You're  dying!" 
wailed  his  wife.  Just  then  the  shrewdly 
forceful  face  of  Me  Shea  peered  in  at  the 
door.  He  had  knocked,  but  in  the  excite 
ment  no  one  had  noticed  it.  The  district 
leader  looked  from  Toomey  to  his  wife, 
and  from  her  to  Duggan.  Then  he  looked 
hard  at  Toomey  again.  Mrs.  Toomey  and 
Duggan  looked  at  each  other  and  then 
back  at  the  dying  man.  No  one  spoke, 
till  Toomey  himself,  putting  his  other  foot 
over  the  side  of  the  bed,  broke  the  silence. 
"  I  feel  so  much  stronger,  that  I  was  just 
going  to  go  and  see  you,"  he  said ;  "  about 
my  government  job,  you  know,  and  my 
will." 

McShea's  eyes  twinkled.  "  Toomey, 
it's  no  use.  There's  too  many  after  it.  If 
I  was  you,  and  feeling  as  strong  as  you 
seem  to,  I'd  keep  my  job,  and  my  wife, 
and  my  money  !  " 

A  stronger  wave  of  sound  rolled  up. 
Again  the  patrol  gong  sounded.  There 
was  the  clangor  of  an  ambulance.  From 
the  saloon  on  the  corner  came  confused 
shouts.  Men  and  women  screamed.  Peo 
ple  peered  over  the  edges  of  the  roofs,  and 


HIS   GOVERNMENT  JOB  27 

windows  and  fire-escapes  became  suddenly 
alive.  The  sounds  became  a  roar. 

Toomey,  in  a  tingle  of  excitement,  ran 
to  the  window,  leaned  far  out,  and  ex 
citedly  shouted  inquiries  that  nobody 
heeded  or  even  heard.  His  wife  and  Dug- 
gan  tugged  at  him  in  vain.  McShea  looked 
on  in  grim  amusement. 

Ambulance  and  patrol  wagon  went 
dangerously  away.  The  crowd  dispersed. 
The  roar  of  sound  died  down.  Toomey 
turned  back  into  the  room.  Mrs.  Toomey 
sat  down,  stupefied  into  silence.  Duggan 
tried  not  to  scowl.  The  eyes  of  the  dis 
trict  leader  twinkled.  The  almost  defunct 
packer  and  weigher  was  for  a  moment  dis 
concerted,  but  as  he  caught  the  twinkle  in 
his  district  leader's  eyes  he  braced  himself 
with  a  grin. 

"  If  you  won't  let  me  will  my  job,  Mc 
Shea,  I  think  I'll  keep  it  awhile  myself," 
he  said. 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS    POST 

LEMUEL  HALL,  exhausted  and  al 
most  unconscious,  lay  alone  in  his 
little  room  on  the  top  floor  of  a  rear  tene 
ment  on  Ludlow  Street.  His  landlord, 
going  to  collect  his  pittance  of  rent,  found 
him  huddled  in  a  corner,  with  the  late 
rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  shining  upon  him 
with  dark  obscurity  through  the  dustily 
opaque  glass  of  the  small  window. 

The  ambulance  surgeon  said  that  he  was 
suffering  from  lack  of  food,  and  invigorated 
him  with  stimulants.  Then  Hall  explained 
that  he  had  been  unable  to  earn  any  money 
for  several  weeks,  as  he  was  so  feeble  and 
so  bent  with  rheumatism  that  nobody 
would  employ  him.  He  said  that  he  had 
not  tasted  food  for  two  days,  and  added, 
simply,  that  he  had  hoped  death  would 
come  without  his  plight  being  discovered, 
as  the  thought  of  receiving  charity  was 
almost  unbearable. 

31 


32     A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

The  landlord  summoned  a  policeman 
and  had  Hall  taken  into  custody  on  a 
charge  of  vagrancy.  He  told  the  officer 
that  the  man  was  penniless  and  down 
hearted,  and  that  he  feared  he  would  com 
mit  suicide.  When  taken  the  next  morn 
ing  to  Essex  Market  Court,  Hall  weakly 
waited  with  the  crowd  of  prisoners  in  the 
unventilated  "  pen,"  and  when  his  name 
was  called,  he  staggered  out  in  front  of  the 
bar. 

"  Is  that  man  drunk  ?  "asked  the  magis 
trate,  sharply. 

"  No,  Your  Honor,  but  I  understand 
he's  starving." 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  crowded,  stuffy 
little  court-room  as  the  magistrate  leaned 
over  his  desk  and  looked  down  at  Hall, 
who  tried,  with  pitiable  ineffectuality,  to 
stand  erect  and  save  his  pride. 

"  He  was  arrested  yesterday,  after  the 
adjournment  of  court,  and  there's  no  ap 
propriation,  you  know,  for  the  feeding  of 
prisoners  till  they've  been  arraigned  and 
formally  remanded,"  continued  the  officer. 
"  I  didn't  hear  of  his  case  until  a  few  min 
utes  ago.  I  understand  that  the  ambu- 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST     33 

lance  surgeon  gave  him  stimulants,  but 
that  he  hasn't  had  anything  since." 

"What  is  your  business?  Have  you 
any  family  or  friends?  "said  the  magistrate, 
looking  at  Hall  with  kindly  scrutiny. 

"  I — I  used  to  be  a  machinist — but  I 
can't  get  work  at — at  anything.  I'm  will 
ing  to  sweep  or  shovel — but  I'm  rheumatic 
and  stiff.  I've  no  friends " 

The  judge  handed  some  money  to  one  of 
the  court  officers.  "  Take  this,  and  go  out 
and  get  something  strong  and  nourishing 
for  the  man,"  he  said,  with  a  brusqueness 
that  was  intended  to  hide  the  unjudicial 
character  of  the  act.  And  at  that  a  ragged 
fellow,  who  had  just  been  fined  a  dollar 
for  drunkenness,  and  who  had  stood,  after 
paying  his  fine,  to  watch  the  man  who  had 
been  found  starving,  stepped  back  to  the 
bar  and  said  : 

"  Judge,  Your  Honor,  it  wuz  two  dol 
lars  as  I  was  expectin'  to  be  foined,  an'  me 
woife  sint  in  to  me  that  same,  an'  now  I'll 
take  it  koindly  if  you'll  let  me  give  this 
extry  dollar  to — 

But  Hall  interrupted  him,  hurriedly. 
"No,  no.  I  thank  you — but  I  can't  take 


34    A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

your  money."  And  a  woman  in  a  faded 
shawl  and  gown,  and  of  an  appearance  that 
showed  years  of  toil  and  hardship,  pushed 
her  way  to  the  front,  and  with  a  look  of 
set  determination  seized  the  would-be  gen 
erous  man  by  the  arm,  took  the  dollar 
from  his  hand,  and  pushed  him  unresist 
ingly  toward  the  door. 

"  Hall,  I  don't  want  to  commit  you  to 
the  Workhouse  as  a  vagrant,"  said  the 
magistrate,  kindly.  "  I  feel  a  sympathy 
with  a  man  in  your  condition,  for  you  are 
evidently  intelligent,  and  you  impress  me 
as  one  who  has  done  his  best  to  make  a 
living.  I  shall  send  you  where  you  will 
be  given  medical  care  if  you  need  it,  and 
where  you  will  always  be  warm  and  have 
plenty  to  eat.  I  shall  see  that  you  are 
temporarily  strengthened  before  you  leave 
this  building,  and  then  you  will  be  taken 
to  the  Almshouse." 

"Don't,  don't  make  a  pauper  of  me!" 
cried  Hall.  "Let  me  just  creep  away 
somewhere  and  die ! "  But  the  judge 
briefly  ordered  the  next  case  to  be  called, 
and  two  officers  removed  the  limp  form  of 
Hall  to  an  ante-room.  In  the  afternoon 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST     35 

he  was  taken  to  Blackwell's  Island  and 
entered  as  an  inmate  of  the  Almshouse. 

From  the  first,  in  his  new  home,  he  was 
reserved  and  reticent.  The  garrulous  cu 
riosity  of  the  old  men  who  crept  and  hob 
bled  about  him  and  plied  him  with  cun 
ningly  contrived  questions  as  to  his  past 
resulted  in  very  little,  for  of  his  past  he 
would  not  speak,  further  than  to  say  that 
he  had  once  been  fairly  prosperous,  and 
had  had  a  family,  but  that  now  he  had  no 
money  and  his  family  were  all  dead.  His 
comrades  grumbled  at  his  balking  of  their 
curiosity. 

"  What  can  we  talk  of,  over  here,  if 
new-comers  won't  tell  us  all  about  them 
selves  ?  "  was  the  burden  of  their  complaint. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  Hall  soon  made  him 
self  well  liked. 

Inflammatory  rheumatism,  complicated 
with  complaints  that  had  come  through 
neglect  and  insufficient  food,  kept  Hall  a 
prisoner  within  his  ward  for  a  considerable 
part  of  the  time,  and  frequently  caused  him 
excruciating  pain,  but  he  was  always  eager 
to  be  out  as  much  as  possible.  Wearily 
walking,  one  day,  toward  a  sunny  corner 


36    A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

overlooking  the  East  River  and  its  swirling 
tide,  he  saw  a  couple  of  others  hobbling 
toward  the  same  spot,  and,  reaching  it,  he 
found  a  score  of  crippled  and  palsied  and 
feeble  men  holding  what  seemed  to  be  a 
meeting,  with  a  blind  man  acting  as  chair 
man.  Several  of  the  men  had  but  an  arm 
apiece ;  others  had  lost  a  leg ;  all  were 
weak  or  disabled.  Dressed  in  the  Alms- 
house  suits,  with  cap  and  jacket  and  trou 
sers  of  the  same  cheap  cloth,  which  was 
neither  a  gray  nor  a  brown,  but  an  indis 
tinguishable  mixture  of  both,  according  as 
the  wind  and  sun  had  weather-stained 
them,  the  men  had  anything  but  a  mili 
tary  aspect ;  and  yet  there  was  something 
about  them  that  told  Hall  that  they  were 
meeting  as  old  soldiers. 

He  hobbled  away,  feeling  that  he  ought 
not  to  intrude  upon  a  private  meeting,  but 
his  curiosity  was  great  in  regard  to  what  he 
had  seen,  and  he  soon  learned  that  he  had 
come  upon  a  meeting  of  Friendless  Post, 
which  met,  in  some  part  of  the  grounds  or 
in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  buildings,  almost 
daily.  Most  frequently,  they  met  at  the 
spot  where  he  had  come  upon  them.  He 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST     37 


was  pained  to  learn  that,  among  the  twenty- 
eight  hundred  inmates  of  the  pauper  insti 
tution,  were  thus  a  score  or  so  of  men  who 
had  helped  to  fight  the  battles  of  their 
country. 

The  men  were  not  a  part  of  the  Grand 
Army  of  the  Republic.  It  never  occurred 
to  them  that 
they  could  be 
admitted,  and, 
indeed,  they 
would  have 
shrunk  from  ask 
ing  for  recogni 
tion  as  a  pauper 
Post.  The  name 
of  Friendless 
Post  had  been 
given  them  by  a 
newspaper  man, 

and  had  been  at  once  adopted  by  the 
veterans  themselves  and  all  on  the  Island. 
They  once  a  year  elected  a  leader,  and 
William  Morrison,  a  blind  man,  was  now 
serving  his  second  term. 

Gradually,  Hall  became  acquainted  with 
a   few  of   the  members;  and,  introducing 


38     A    BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

the  subject  of  their  war  experiences,  found 
that  with  the  slightest  encouragement  they 
became  interminably  garrulous.  By  show 
ing  himself  a  good  listener  he  aroused  a 
strong  friendship  in  the  breasts  of  the  with 
ered  old  fellows;  and  so,  one  day,  as  he 
again  went  by  apparent  chance  near  the 
spot  where  the  veterans  were  meeting,  he 
was  greeted  with  shrill  and  crackly  cries 
of  welcome. 

"  Come  over  here  !  Sit  down  and  talk 
with  us !  We'll  tell  you  all  about  the 
war!" 

Hall  limped  over  to  them,  and  after 
punctiliously  formal  introductions  got 
down,  with  squirms  of  pain — for  his  rheu 
matism  was  quite  bad  that  day — on  one  of 
the  planks  beside  them.  Three  of  the  most 
helpless,  who  had  been  carried  to  the  spot 
by  their  comrades,  occupied  a  bench  to 
gether.  A  couple  of  other  benches,  for 
the  more  feeble,  served — with  a  few  planks 
and  the  grass  itself — for  seats  for  the  rest 
of  the  Post.  The  men  were  vying  with 
each  other  in  tales  of  various  campaigns, 
and  although  the  stories  had  been  told 
dozens  of  times  they  were  listened  to  at- 


A   BURIAL  BY   FRIENDLESS   POST     39 

tentively,  for  each  man  knew  that  the  only 
way  to  secure  attention  for  himself,  when 
he  came  to  tell  his  own  oft-repeated  tales 
of  camp  and  march  and  battle,  was  to 
show  interest  in  the  adventures  of  the 
others. 

Frequently,  after  that,  did  Hall  join  the 
garrulous  gathering,  and  he  always  listened 
with  close  attention.  Sometimes  the  old 
fellows  condoled  with  him  that  he  had  not 
been  able  to  be  a  soldier  himself,  and  he 
always  responded  that  it  would  indeed 
have  been  something  to  be  proud  of.  And 
one  day,  when  old  Jube  Marriott  was  tell 
ing  a  prosing  tale,  he  could  not  recollect 
the  name  of  the  river  just  north  of  Alla- 
toona  Pass,  and  stammeringly  hesitated  in 
his  story. 

"  The  Etowah,"  said  Hall.  "  The  river 
that  Johnston  didn't  want  to  cross  till  he 
could  fight  Sherman's  left  wing  at  Cass- 
ville,  you  know." 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  group,  and  Mar 
riott  was  too  much  taken  by  surprise  to 
continue  his  tale.  "  I  didn't  know  you'd 
ever  been  in  Georgia,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Hall,  looking  with  em- 


40    A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

barrassment  over  the  water,  while  he  felt, 
rather  than  saw,  the  glances  of  amazement 
that  the  men  exchanged.  Within  a  few 
minutes  he  said  that  he  would  have  to  be 
going,  and  the  others  were  still  too  sur 
prised  to  make  more  than  a  half-hearted 
effort  to  detain  him.  Then  they  held  a 
council  of  war,  as  they  termed  it,  and  after 
a  deal  of  discussion  and  solemn  supposi 
tion,  Aleck  Hanny  said  : 

"  Comrades,  there  ain't  but  one  explana 
tion.  This  man  Hall  was  a  Confedrit,  a 
Rebel,  an'  that's  why  he  knows  about  these 
things,  an' it's  why  he  was  always  so  blame 
careful  not  to  let  us  think  he  knowed  a 
thing." 

"Yes,"  said  the  others.  "  Hall  was  a 
Confederate." 

"  But,"  said  Blind  Morrison,  gently, 
"  we  must  remember,  comrades,  that  the 
war  is  over,  and  that  each  side  thought 
itself  right.  Don't  let  any  of  us  treat  him 
any  different.  We  must  have  him  meet 
with  us  just  as  he's  been  doing.  And  we 
must  not  let  him  think  we  have  discovered 
his  secret,  for  that  would  probably  keep 
him  away  from  us,  and  I  am  sure,  from  the 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST    41 

sound  of  his  voice  when  I  have  heard 
him  speak,  that  he  has  enjoyed  being  with 
us.  Let  us  be  brave  soldiers,  and  do  noth 
ing  that  would  seem  to  be  still  fighting 
him." 

It  was  not  only  that  the  veterans  always 
listened  to  their  blind  leader  with  respect, 
but  that  in  this  case  his  words  also  ap 
pealed  to  their  rough  sense  of  chivalry, 
and  so,  when  Hall  absented  himself  for 
several  days  from  the  meetings,  Hanny  and 
Marriott  sought  him  out,  told  him  they  all 
missed  him,  and  the  three  hobbled  and 
limped  together  to  the  meeting-place. 
There,  however,  although  the  veterans,  by 
dint  of  intense  self-control,  refrained  from 
asking  direct  questions  as  to  Hall's  army 
life,  they  could  not  keep  from  hovering  on 
the  verge  of  the  forbidden  ground  by 
forming  inquiries  in  regard  to  distances, 
places,  and  campaigns  in  the  South,  and 
whenever  Hall  answered  the  questions, 
which  they  put  to  him  with  a  labored  effort 
to  be  natural,  they  furtively  exchanged 
glances  of  intelligence.  "  I  have  been  in 
the  South,  and  of  course  know  a  good 
deal  about  it,"  he  said,  lamely. 


42     A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS    POST 

For  a  week  the  old  soldiers  were  able 
to  keep  from  letting  Hall  know  of  their 
discovery,  but  they  made  up  for  their  self- 
denial  by  prosing  endlessly  on  the  subject 
in  their  own  wards  and  when  Hall  was 
not  with  them.  And  one  day  slow-witted 
Fred  Ohlens  blurted  out,  but  from  igno 
rance  rather  than  design : 

"  Don't  you  Rebs  feel  that  it  was  best, 
after  all,  for  us  Unions  to  have  whipped 
you  ?  " 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Hall.  "  Did  you 
take  me  for  a  Confederate  ?  "  He  gasped, 
and  looked  around  the  group,  and  saw 
that  every  man  was  indeed  of  that  opin 
ion.  "  I  was  not  a  Confederate  !  No  ! 
I  was —  But  he  stopped,  twisted  him 

self  as  nearly  erect  as  his  rheumatism, 
which  had  of  late  been  growing  worse, 
would  permit,  and  went  slowly  away,  with 
not  a  single  voice  to  call  him  back. 

"  Then  he  must  have  been  a  deserter!" 
That  was  the  stern  verdict  rendered  against 
him,  and  not  even  Blind  Morrison  had  a 
word  to  say  in  his  defence. 

Hall  did  not  reappear  at  the  meetings, 
nor  did  any  member  of  Friendless  Post 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST    43 

suggest  that  he  be  sent  for.  He  was  often 
spoken  of,  and,  taking  their  tone  from 
Morrison,  the  men  gradually  came  to  re 
fer  to  him  with  pity,  although  not  one 
would  have  consented  that  he  again  meet 
with  them.  For  two  weeks  none  saw  him, 
for  his  ward  was  quite  a  distance  from 
those  of  the  members  of  the  Post,  and 
there  was  nothing  strange,  amid  the  great 
population  and  the  various  buildings  of 
the  institution,  thata  man  should  for  many 
days  chance  not  to  be  seen.  But  one  day 
Marriott  had  news. 

"  Lemuel  Hall's  in  the  hospital  ward. 
He  hasn't  been  out  of  bed  for  a  week,  and 
the  doctor  says  he's  dying."  A  silence  fell 
upon  the  group.  "  Comrade  Hanny," 
said  Morrison,  at  length,  "  will  you  please 
lead  me  to  the  sick  ward  ?  " 

Hanny  was  semi-paralyzed  and  had  but 
one  leg,  but  he  had  long  been  a  close  friend 
of  Morrison's,  and  was  almost  always  the 
one  who  acted  as  the  blind  man's  guide. 
Friendless  Post  watched  in  silence  as  the 
two  companions  started,  arm  in  arm,  toward 
the  building  to  which  the  sick  man  had 
been  taken.  The  doorkeeper  allowed 


44    A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

them  to  pass,  and  they  went  haltingly 
down  the  cot-lined  aisle,  with  hollow-eyed 
men  intently  watching  them.  Lemuel  Hall 
saw  them  coming,  and  a  light  of  eagerness 
came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Comrade — for  you  were  our  comrade 
once,"  said  Morrison,  "  is  there  anything 
we  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  No.  But  it  is  good  of  you  to  come. 
Otherwise,  I  should  have  died  without  a 
friend  to  speak  to  me."  He  was  very  fee 
ble,  and  his  words  came  with  difficulty. 

"  And  I  wanted  you  to  know,"  went  on 
Morrison,  clumsily  striving  to  ease  the  dy 
ing  man's  mind,  "that  all  of  us  feel  sure 
that,  whatever  your  reason  was  for — for 
leaving  the  army  as  you  did,  you  must  have 
had  some  very  strong  temptation — I  mean 
that  all  of  us  think  you  were  an  honest  sol 
dier  at  heart,  and  wouldn't  act  so  again  if 
you  had  it  to  do  over — and  if  another  old 
soldier,  who  gave  his  own  eyesight  for  his 
country,  can  do  or  say  anything  that  will 
help  you,  he  wants  to  do  it." 

Hall's  face  grew  very  white.  "  They 
think  me  a  deserter,"  he  whispered,  but 
more  to  himself  than  to  them.  Then  he 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST     45 

feebly  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  get  his  stiffened 
hand  into  his  bosom. 

"There's  a  paper  there;  take  it,"  he 
gasped.  "  I  had  thought  that  I  would  die 
with  it,  and  ask  the  nurse  to  tell  no  one 
about  it,  but — just  have  it  buried  with 
me.  I — I — it  was  my  pride.  I  was  too 
proud  to  say,  when  I  was  a  pauper,  that 
I  had  been  a  soldier.  It — was  a  mistake — 
but  I  didn't  wan't  to — disgrace — the  old 
flag." 

He  choked,  and  seemed  very  weary. 
Morrison  gently  felt  in  his  bosom,  and 
drew  forth  a  folded  paper.  He  knew  what 
it  must  be,  but  he  passed  it  to  Hanny  to 
read.  And  Hanny,  with  his  old  eyes 
watery  from  emotion  as  well  as  from  age, 
spelled  slowly  out,  word  by  word,  in  an 
awed  and  hushed  tone,  while  Hall  lay  very 
silent  and  with  a  look  of  serene  peace  upon 
his  face,  the  document  that  formally  certi 
fied  that  Lemuel  Hall  had  been  a  member 
of  the  Eighty-seventh  Pennsylvania  Regi 
ment,  from  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War 
until  his  honorable  discharge  at  its  very 
close. 

He  concluded,  but  Hall  lay  very  still, 


46     A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

and  with  that  same  look  of  peaceful  se 
renity  upon  his  face.  "  Comrade,  we  mis 
understood  you,"  said  Morrison.  "You 
were  a  brave  man." 

Hall  did  not  reply.  His  expression  did 
not  change.  Hanny  cleared  his  misty  eyes 
and,  looking  closely  at  the  still  face,  ut 
tered  a  low  cry.  Morrison  bent  swiftly 
forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  Lemuel 
Hall's  heart,  but  there  was  no  responsive 
beat.  A  nurse  was  summoned,  and  she 
gently  laid  a  white  cloth  over  the  dead 
man's  face. 

The  next  day  a  group  of  men,  gray  and 
withered,  dodderingly  stumbled  from  the 
Protestant  chapel,  bearing  between  them  a 
cheap  coffin,  covered  with  an  American 
flag.  The  faces  of  the  men  were  solemn 
with  importance,  and  also  from  a  sense  of 
pride  in  the  burden  that  they  bore.  One 
of  the  Almshouse  clerks  stepped  forward 
to  save  the  coffin  from  a  threatened  fall, 
but  they  refused  his  aid  as  if  he  had  tried 
to  steady  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant.  The 
bearers  were  six,  and  all  had  the  stooping, 
halting  listlessness,  that  comes  from  weak 
ness,  and  from  day  after  day  of  nothing  for 


47 

the  hands  to  do  and  almost  nothing  to 
occupy  the  mind. 

Behind  them  came  the  firing-squad  ;  six 
more  men,  each  of  whom  carried  a  gun, 
and  each  of  whom  wore  a  long  blue  over 
coat,  such  as  were  worn  by  inmates  sent  on 
errands,  in  winter-time;  and  which,  on  oc 
casions  like  the  present,  were  privileged  to 
answer  for  military  coats.  Behind  the  fir 
ing-squad,  who  awkwardly  formed  on 
either  side  of  the  bearers  in  the  little  sunny 
spot  beside  the  chapel,  came  another  shriv 
elled  and  wrinkled  few,  rubbing  their  fee 
ble  eyes  as  they  emerged  from  the  gloom 
of  the  interior  into  the  bright  sunlight. 

It  was  a  proud  privilege  of  the  handful 
of  old  soldiers  to  bury,  with  military  cere 
mony,  such  of  their  number  as  died  on  the 
Island,  and  thus  it  was  that  Lemuel  Hall 
was  to  be  honored  in  death  so  far  as 
Friendless  Post  could  honor  him. 

"Attention!"  cried  William  Morrison, 
who,  most  erect  of  the  entire  group,  stood 
with  bared  head  and  shoulders  thrown 
back,  and  a  look  of  grave  earnestness  upon 
his  face.  He  knew  that  the  men  were 
ready,  for  the  shambling,  stumbling  shuffle 


48     A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS    POST 
of  the  veterans  had  ceased,  the  guns  had 

*  o 

been  awkwardly  dropped  at  rest,  and  he 
had  heard  the  butts  strike  the  ground, 
while  a  little  chorus  of  coughing  and  of 

O  O 

clearing  of  throats,  which  was  quite  invol 
untary  on  the  part  of  the  old  fellows,  bore 
testimony  to  their  self-consciousness  and 
also  to  the  fact  that  they  were  waiting  for 
the  start. 

"  Forward,  march  !  "  cried  Morrison,  and 
away  from  the  chapel  and  down  the  road 
way,  shaded  from  the  heat  of  the  sun  by 
overhanging  branches,  the  shambling,  qua 
vering  procession  went.  Beside  them  the 
swift  tide  swept  and  gurgled,  and  upon 
the  surface  of  the  roughened  East  River 
the  sunlight  refulgently  glistened. 

Profoundly  wrapped  up  in  the  sense  of 
playing  an  important  part,  the  veterans 
were  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  the  cere 
mony  they  were  performing  was  attracting 
but  little  appreciative  attention.  Groups 
of  Almshouse  inmates  stood  aad  watched 
them  pass;  some,  indeed,  with  admiration 
at  so  brave  a  show,  but  most  with  care 
less  indifference.  A  few  employees  and 
guards  also  watched  them,  and  some  even 


A   BURIAL    BY    FRIENDLESS    POST     49 

smiled  at  the  poor  old  fellows'  clumsiness, 
while  on  the  faces  of  but  very  few  was  there 
any  expression  of  interest  or  sympathy. 

Blind  Morrison  marched  bravely  at  the 
head  of  the  desolate  group,  with  Aleck 
Hanny  awkwardly  stumping  along  beside 
him,  and  now  and  then  guiding  him  by  a 
word  or  touch.  The  firing  squad,  proud 
est  and  most  self-conscious  of  the  party, 
strutted  pitifully,  stiff  with  wounds  and 
feebleness  and  rheumatism,  holding  their 
guns  in  erratically  varied  positions,  and 
unconsciously  shifting  them,  to  ease  their 
hands  and  shoulders,  as  they  marched, 
and  thus  pointing  the  muzzles  in  eccen 
trically  new  directions.  But  the  guns 
were  not  loaded.  The  blank  cartridges 
that  were  to  be  fired  were  not  to  be  put 
in  till  the  squad  should  stand  beside  the 
grave,  for  otherwise  there  would  have 
been  six  individual  salutes,  accidentally 
fired  at  startlingly  unexpected  intervals, 
before  the  firing  party  had  gotten  a  hun 
dred  yards  from  the  chapel. 

The  coffin  bearers  grew  red  in  the  face 
and  staggered  weakly,  but  none  asked  to 
be  relieved  of  the  burden  of  which  all  were 


50    A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

so  proud.  A  few  of  the  old  soldiers,  too 
crippled  or  feeble  to  accompany  the  fu 
neral  party,  looked  after  the  little  proces 
sion  with  wistful  longing.  Some,  too,  of 
the  regular  Almshouse  inmates,  in  addi 
tion  to  those  who  stood  in  groups  along 
the  roadway,  looked  lazily  after  the  veter 
ans  from  the  windows  of  their  wards  or 
from  doorways,  but  the  majority  of  the 
hundreds  of  men  and  women  who  made 
their  home  there  were  absolutely  uninter 
ested,  and  sat  unmoved  upon  the  benches, 
or  lay  sprawled  upon  the  grass,  sluggishly 
gazing,  as  was  their  occupation  for  hour 
after  hour  and  day  after  day,  at  the  hurry 
ing  tide  and  the  passing  boats,  in  dormant 
apathy. 

At  the  storehouse  dock  lay  the  steamer 
that  had  just  unloaded  its  morning  cargo 
of  criminals,  paupers  and  sick,  for  the  pub 
lic  hospitals,  the  Almshouse,  and  the  penal 
institutions  of  that  island  of  varied  misery. 
The  captain  was  impatient,  for  he  saw  that 
the  shambling  old  fellows  were  proceeding 
very  slowly.  They  were  not  only  desirous 
to  prolong  the  glory  of  their  march,  but 
hoped  also  that  they  would  not  reach  the 


A  few  of  the  old  soldiers    .    .    .    looked  after  the  little 
procession. 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST     53 

dock  with  their  dead  comrade  till  the 
criminals  had  been  inarched  away.  Yet 
they  did  not  dare  actually  to  loiter,  for 
they  knew,  from  previous  experience,  how 
harshly  they  would  be  berated  for  such 
temerity.  They  had  once  been  told,  in 
deed,  that  they  ought  to  have  the  privilege 
of  soldiers'  funerals  taken  away  from  them 
for  actually  presuming  to  compel  the  boat 
to  wait  four  minutes.  To-day  they  had 
underestimated,  a  little,  the  time  within 
which  the  boat  would  be  ready  for  them. 

"Hurry  up  there!  What  are  you  so 
slow  about  ?  "  cried  the  captain,  roughly, 
and  Blind  Morrison,  in  his  eagerness  to 
respond,  tripped  over  a  stone,  and  would 
have  fallen  had  not  Hanny  quickly  caught 
him.  The  entire  party  then  increased  their 
pace,  while  the  mate,  obedient  to  the  cap 
tain's  command,  ran  out  to  meet  them  and 
hurry  them  along.  It  was  with  a  cowed 
and  humble  air  that  the  veterans  reached 
the  dock,  and  shuffled,  without  order, 
aboard  the  steamer.  A  line  of  Workhouse 
prisoners,  about  to  march  off  in  custody  of 
their  guards,  forgot  their  own  plight  and 
jeered  at  the  discomfited  men,  while  the 


54    A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST 

fifteen  convicts  who  formed  the  crew  of 
the  steamer  grinned  appreciatively  in  re 
turn. 

"  Step  lively,  there  !  Just  take  that  up 
in  front  with  the  other  bodies  !  " 

Friendless  Post  went  to  the  forward 
end  of  the  boat,  bearing  the  body  with 
them,  but  they  did  not  put  it  down  beside 
the  other  coffins  that  were  there  piled  up, 
for  the  others  held  pauper  bodies  from  the 
Morgue,  that  were  to  be  given  burial  in 
Potter's  Field,  while  it  was  the  pride  of 
Friendless  Post  that  the  soldier  dead  es 
caped  that  fate,  one  of  the  G.  A.  R. 
Posts,  of  New  York,  having  purchased  a 
plot  of  ground  on  Hart's  Island,  near,  in 
deed,  to  the  Potter's  Field,  yet  entirely 
separate  from  it,  and  given  it  to  the  vet 
erans  of  the  Almshouse  for  use  as  a  sol 
diers'  cemetery. 

To  that  dreary  island,  in  Long  Island 
Sound,  where  New  York  City  annually 
buries  over  two  thousand  pauper  or  un 
known  dead,  the  steamer  puffed  its  lei 
surely  way,  and  the  soldiers  were  hurried 
ashore  with  their  burden.  At  the  little 
plot  of  land  where,  though  paupers  in  life, 


A   BURIAL   BY   FRIENDLESS   POST     55 

they  could  at  least  lie  in  free  soil  in  death, 
the  company  took  on  an  aspect  of  curious 
dignity,  and  even  the  mate,  who  had  gone 
after  them  to  hurry  their  proceedings, 
took  off  his  hat  as  he  neared  them  and 
stood  silent  as  he  watched. 

A  friendly  keeper,  who  had  accom 
panied  the  party,  loaded  the  muskets,  the 
tottering  firing-squad  lined  up  beside  the 
open  grave,  and  the  service  for  the  dead 
was  slowly  monotoned.  Blind  Morrison, 
whose  arm  was  held  tight  by  Hanny  to 
keep  him  from  stumbling  into  the  open 
grave,  stood  sombrely  bowed,  and  tears 
crept  down  his  wrinkled  cheeks.  The 
chaplain  concluded  the  brief  service.  The 
firing-squad,  with  a  reawakening  of  self- 
conscious  glory,  braced  themselves  with 
tense  importance,  and  Hanny  whispered 
to  Morrison  when  all  was  ready. 

"  Fire  ! "  said  Morrison,  loudly. 

There  came  a  scattering  response,  for 
the  old  and  palsied  fingers  were  too  much 
affected  by  the  nervousness  of  the  supreme 
moment  to  give  a  concerted  volley.  Point 
ed  down,  or  up,  or  toward  either  side,  the 
guns  flashed  out  their  salute  over  the  grave 


56     A   BURIAL   BY    FRIENDLESS   POST 

of  the  dead  soldier,  and  Morrison  stood  in 
stiff  rigidity  till  the  sixth  shot  had  sounded. 
Then,  spurred  on  by  the  mate,  and  with 
out  semblance  of  order,  Friendless  Post 
shambled  stragglingly  back  to  the  boat. 


OVER    THE    RIVER    FROM   BLACK- 
WELL'S 


OVER   THE    RIVER    FROM    BLACK- 
WELL'S 

THE  deaf  man  who  once  in  a  while 
went  over  to  the  blind  men's  ward,  in 
the  Almshouse,  to  read  the  papers  aloud, 
was  slowly  plodding  through  the  task. 

He  had  no  judgment  in  regard  to  his 
reading.  He  was,  indeed,  barely  more 
than  able  to  read  at  all.  He  would  begin 
at  the  top  of  a  column,  at  random,  any 
where  in  the  paper,  and  read  slowly 
through  to  the  bottom,  taking  in  every 
thing  impartially.  Whether  the  columns 
were  of  editorial  matter,  or  advertisements, 
or  home  news,  or  foreign  despatches,  he 
did  not  care. 

His  reading  to  the  blind  men  was  largely 
from  kindness  of  heart,  and  largely  from 
vanity. 

"They're  so  glad  to  have  me  do  it,"  he 
would  say.  "  And  they  don't  get  up  and 
59 


60  OVER   THE   RIVER 

walk  away,  and  they  don't  come  and  read 
over  my  shoulder  if  I'm  getting  along  a 
little  slow,  and  they  don't  bother  me  with 
questions.  Or  if  they  do,  I  don't  hear 
them,"  he  would  add,  with  a  grin. 

He  was,  indeed,  almost  totally  deaf. 
To-day  he  had  read  the  advertisements  of 
half  a  dozen  dry-goods  houses,  and  had 
then  begun  the  description  of  a  half-page 
picture. 

"  I  guess  it's  another  advertisement,"  he 
said,  after  looking  at  it  for  some  moments 
in  doubt.  "  Probably  a  new  style  of  pants 
or  hat  is  coming  in  fashion.  It  shows  a 
tall  man,  pretty  thin,  with  a  big  hat  on, 
and  pants  that's  tied  under  his  shoes  to 
keep  them  from  slipping  off.  One  foot's 
on  a  place  with  the  name  '  Cuba '  on,  and 
the  other's  touching  Phil — Philip  Pines. 
And  he's  a-straddling  all  over  the  United 
States  to  get  to  Philip.  Guess  it  means 
the  things  will  be  good  to  use  in  all  kinds 
of  places,  but  I  don't  see  the  name  of  any 
store." 

Blind  Morrison  punched  him  gently  with 
his  stick.  "  It's  meant  for  Uncle  Sam  !  " 
he  shouted. 


FROM    BLACKWELL'S  63 

"  Hey  ?  "  said  the  deaf  man. 

"  It's  meant  for  Uncle  Sam  !  "  And 
then  Morrison  put  his  lips  against  one  ear, 
and  another  of  the  blind  men  put  his  lips 
to  the  other,  and  they  shouted  in  unison. 

"  It's  Uncle  Sam  !" 

The  deaf  man  was  irritated.  He  caught 
only  the  last  word. 

"  Sam  ?  "  he  said,  querulously.  "  Sam, 
do  you  say  ?  What's  his  other  name  ? 
And  how  do  you  happen  to  be  so  sure 
about  it  ?  Hey  ?  " 

The  blind  men  humbly  bent  their  heads, 
just  like  men  who  can  see.  The  deaf 
reader  glanced  back  at  the  page,  and  sniffed 
angrily. 

"  It  says  Philip,  here,  anyhow,  and  there 
ain't  any  Sam  !  And  who's  reading  this 
paper  ?  Is  it  me  or  you  ?  That's  what 
I'd  like  to  know  !  " 

Half  a  dozen  of  the  men  gently  tapped 
him  with  their  sticks,  in  a  way  that  he 
knew  meant  an  appeal  for  patience,  and 
after  several  minutes  of  sniffing,  and  of 
grumbling  threats  never  to  read  again  to 
them,  while  the  poor  fellows  listened  in 
dread,  he  resumed  his  task,  and  began  an 


64  OVER   THE   RIVER 

account  of  the  bringing  back,  to  New 
York,  of  the  bodies  of  those  members  of 
one  of  the  local  regiments  who  had  been 
killed  in  the  war  in  Cuba. 

"  The  — bodies  —  of  —  the — dead — sol 
diers — will  —  arrive  —  at  —  New — York — 
on — Sunday — and — will  —  be — escorted — 
to — the — armory — by — the — regiment — 

Morrison  listened  with  absorbed  atten 
tion.  While  the  struggle  in  Cuba  had  been 
in  progress  he  had  never  been  able  to  feel 
much  interest  in  it.  As  a  veteran  of  the 
Civil  War,  and  the  informal  leader  of  the 
handful  of  old  soldiers  who  lived  at  the 
Almshouse,  he  had  underrated  the  war 
with  Spain,  with  its  little  armies,  its  few 
fights,  none  of  which,  in  his  mind,  attained 
to  the  dignity  of  a  battle,  and  its  small 
losses. 

But  of  late  his  ideas  had  gradually 
changed.  He  had  come  to  somewhat  of 
an  understanding  of  the  significance  of  the 
struggle,  somewhat  of  a  realization  of  the 
world-wide  importance  of  the  conquests 
that  his  nation  had  made. 

And  so  Morrison's  admiration  for  the 
New  Army  and  Navy  had  steadily  grown  : 


FROM    BLACKWELL'S  65 

but  he  thought  of  it  all  as  the  "  Army," 
that  word  covering  both  services,  to  his 
mind.  He  regretted  that  he  had  so  long 
belittled  and  ignored  the  war,  and  felt  that 
he  must  now,  as  an  old  veteran  and  the 
leader  of  Friendless  Post,  make  all  the 
amends  in  his  power.  He  was  beginning 
to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  Ex 
pansion." 

The  reader  droned  slowly  on.     "  The — 
line — of — march — will —  be  —  up  —  Broad 
way —  and  —  Fifth  —  avenue.     At — the — 
armory  —  the  —  bodies  —  will  —  lie  —  in 
state." 

An  idea  flashed  suddenly  upon  Morri 
son's  mind.  Would  it  not  be  a  proud  privi 
lege  for  him  to  be  present  at  Sunday's 
ceremony  ?  Was  it  not  a  solemn  duty  as 
well  ?  All  of  his  neglect  and  indifference 
were  forgotten.  The  desire  to  do  honor 
to  the  soldiers  of  the  New  Army  surged 
over  him  like  a  wave. 

The  deaf  man  went  ploddingly  on,  and, 
as  he  read,  Morrison  was  picturing  to  him 
self  the  death  of  the  soldiers  from  fever 
and  bullets  on  the  Cuban  hills.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  continued  struggle  of  the 


66  OVER  THE  RIVER 

regiments  in  the  jungles  and  swamps  of 
the  Philippines.  And  he  thought  of  the 
banks  of  the  Chattahoochee,  the  sweep 
of  the  army  through  the  rice  swamps  of 
the  Carolinas.  Yes,  it  was  all  the  same. 
These  men  of  the  New  Army  were  risk 
ing  their  lives  just  as  he  and  his  comrades 
had  done  in  the  years  that  were  gone. 

He  listened  till  the  last  word  of  the  ac 
count  was  read.  The  deaf  man  next  gave 
the  description  of  a  big  fire,  went  from 
that  to  a  political  meeting,  read  a  humor 
ous  account  of  a  runaway,  and  finished  the 
page  with  a  medley  of  advertisements. 
But  of  all  this  Morrison  heard  nothing. 
His  mind  was  filled  with  thoughts  of  the 
glory  of  the  New  Army ;  of  the  honor 
paid  to  the  flag  abroad  ;  of  how  the  world 
had  awakened  to  new  respect  for  the 
strength  of  the  Republic,  as  displayed  in 
the  Spanish  War. 

The  reading  at  length  concluded,  and 
the  paper  folded  up  with  noisy  crinklings, 
the  deaf  man  coughed  and  hemmed  till 
he  had  been  thanked  over  and  over  again. 
He  beamed  upon  the  humble  men.  He 
bristled  with  importance. 


FROM    BLACKWELL'S  67 

"  It's  a  great  good  thing  to  be  able  to 
read,"  he  said.  He  was  thinking  only 
of  his  own  abilities  and  advantages.  He 
did  not  mean  to  hurt  the  blind  men. 
And,  indeed,  they  were  so  accustomed  to 
scorn  and  carelessness  that  the  feelings 
of  most  of  them  had  become  well  cal 
loused. 

Morrison  tapped  his  way  from  ward  to 
ward  to  find  his  friend  and  comrade,  Aleck 
Hanny. 

"  Oh,  man  !  It's  all  come  over  me  with 
a  rush  !  There's  a  funeral  on  Sunday — a 
funeral  of  the  New  Army  !  " 

"In  New  York — -and  will  there  be 
marching?"  asked  Hanny. 

"Yes.  They'll  march.  And  it's  dead 
soldiers  brought  home  from  Cuba.  And 
I  must  go,  Hanny!  I  must  go!  You'll 
go  with  me,  Hanny?" 

From  its  tone  of  excitement,  the  voice 
had  sunk  to  a  pitifully  pleading  sound. 
"You'll  go  with  me,  Hanny?"  And 
Hanny  comforted  him. 

"  Yes,  yes.  I'll  go.  Of  course  I'll  go. 
Did  I  ever  desert  you,  Morrison  ?  " 

"  No.     You've  been  a  good  friend  ;  but 


68  OVER    THE   RIVER 

I  wanted  to  go  so  much,  and  I  was  afraid 
that  maybe " 

"  Yes,  yes.  Of  course.  But  now  you 
know  it'll  be  all  right,"  said  Hanny,  still 
speaking  very  soothingly. 

"  Will  there  be  any  trouble  about  our 
getting  passes  to  go  ashore  on  Sunday,  do 
you  think  ?  "  asked  Morrison,  with  a  new 
touch  of  fear. 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Hanny.  "  We'll  get 
them  easy  enough." 

"  Let's  go  and  get  them  now,"  insisted 
Morrison.  "  Maybe  there  will  be  so 
many  ask  for  that  day  that  they  won't  let 
us." 

So  the  two  went  together  to  the  office, 
and  the  desired  passes  were  given  them. 
Not  till  the  coveted  bit  of  paper  was  actu 
ally  in  Morrison's  ringers  did  the  fear  that 
he  might  be  disappointed  vanish. 

His  eagerness  to  be  with  the  New  Army 
grew  steadily  more  intense.  His  being 
blind  locked  his  emotions  into  narrower 
channels,  but  this  alone  was  far  from  ex 
plaining  the  intensity  of  his  desire.  He 
talked  of  nothing  but  the  war  with  Spain 
and  in  the  Philippines.  "  Seems  as  if 


FROM   BLACKWELL'S  69 

Morrison  has  just  heard  that  there's  been 
some  fighting,"  was  the  general  comment. 

He  sat  by  the  water-side  with  Hanny, 
and  a  few  other  members  of  Friendless 
Post,  as  the  veterans  were  called,  and  they 
sang  old  war-songs  and  cheered  each  pass 
ing  ship.  The  others  caught  the  infection 
of  excitement  from  the  blind  man.  When 
meal-time  came,  Morrison  let  himself  be 
led  to  join  the  waiting  men,  where  scores 
stood  patiently  in  line  while  other  scores 
ate;  but  when  his  turn  at  the  table  came 
he  could  scarcely  swallow  anything.  He 
was  too  excited  to  be  hungry,  and  the 
thick  soup,  the  lumps  of  meat,  the  cheap, 
thin  tea,  were  tasteless  to  him.  He 
thought  only  of  the  New  Army. 

Night  came,  but  he  could  not  sleep. 
He,  usually  so  quiet  and  self-controlled, 
tossed  and  tumbled  on  his  narrow  cot,  in 
the  big  bare  ward.  He  sang  army  songs, 
and  even  tried  to  give  vocalic  utterance  to 
a  funeral  dirge,  from  what  he  remembered 
of  how  a  band  had  played  it,  years  be 
fore.  At  this,  even  the  long-suffering  of 
his  blind  companions  gave  way,  and  a 
sleepy  keeper  cursed  him  till  he  lay  still. 


70  OVER   THE   RIVER 

The  keeper  reported  him,  the  next  day, 
for  disorder  in  his  ward,  and  as  a  punish 
ment  his  leave  of  absence  was  revoked. 
When  Hanny  learned  of  this  he  was  deep 
ly  indignant,  and  stumped  off  to  expostu 
late,  but  his  interference  resulted  only  in 
the  revocation  of  his  own  leave  as  well. 

The  men  were  terribly  disappointed ; 
Morrison,  from  a  sense  of  personal  loss 
which  he  would  have  been  quite  unable  to 
explain,  and  Hanny  from  his  sense  of  loy 
alty  to  Morrison  and  his  appreciation  of 
his  comrade's  distress.  Morrison's  enthu 
siasm  had  changed  to  sombre  bitterness. 

"  I'd  risk  my  life  to  go  over  there,"  he 
said,  at  length,  in  half-aloud  soliloquy. 
For  several  minutes,  Hanny  did  not  re 
spond.  The  remark  of  Morrison  was  crys 
tallizing  in  his  mind  an  idea  that  already 
had  taken  shape  there.  Yet  he  hesitated 
about  expressing  it,  and  when  he  did  his 
voice  quivered  a  little,  although  he  tried 
to  make  it  big  and  strong. 

C5  O 

"  Let's  go  over,  anyhow,"  he  said. 
"  Go  over  !     What  do  you  mean  ?     How 
can  we  do  it  ?  "  cried  Morrison. 

"  Float !  "  was  Hanny's  laconic  reply. 


FROM   BLACKWELL'S  71 

"  But  I'm  blind,  and  you're  paralyzed 
and  got  only  one  leg  !  " 

"  We'll  do  it ! "  said  Hanny,  his  voice 
getting  every  moment  braver.  "  Friendless 
Post  never  had  as  good  a  leader  as  you, 
and,  besides  that — well,  I  feel  if  there's 
anything  I  can  do  for  you,  I'm  ready  to  do 
it.  And  I'm  not  the  only  old  soldier  here 
that  feels  the  same  way,  though  maybe 
you  never  suspected  it.  We  can  get  away. 
We'll  make  a  raft.  We're  trusted,  you 
know,  to  go  around  pretty  free,  an'  after 
supper  we'll  come  back  here,  an'  fix  it  up. 
I've  got  it  all  planned." 

After  supper,  Hanny  led  Morrison  out 
from  the  buildings,  instead  of  taking  him, 
as  usual,  to  the  blind  ward,  and  so  con 
trived  it  that  they  were  able  to  keep  out 
of  sight  of  the  guards  till  nightfall.  The 
discipline  is  not  strict  there,  as  such  a  thing 
as  an  escape  from  the  Almshouse  is  not 
looked  for.  A  guard,  indeed,  did  come 
upon  the  two  fellows,  but  they  sat  very 
quiet,  and  he  contented  himself  with  gruff 
ly  ordering  them  to  go  to  their  wards. 

With  eager  haste  Hanny  worked  to 
make  a  simple  raft.  Two  boards,  about 


72  OVER   THE   RIVER 

fifteen  feet  in  length,  that  had  carelessly 
been  left  by  carpenters,  after  a  repair  job, 
and  which  had  been  carried  here  by  Friend 
less  Post  to  serve  as  seats,  were  dragged  to 
the  edge  of  the  river,  and  bound  together 
with  stout  cord  that  Hanny  had  secured 
on  the  plea  of  needing  it  for  repairs  to  his 
cot. 

Morrison  was  exhilarated.  He  was  eager 
to  help  Hanny  push  and  tug.  When 
forced  to  wait,  idly,  while  Hanny  worked, 
he  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience.  The  cool 
night-wind  struck  his  face,  and  his  spirit 
exulted.  A  dash  of  rain  came,  but  he 
barely  noticed  it.  When  the  raft  was 
ready,  together  they  lifted  it  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  retaining  wall,  and  one  end  was 
dropped  into  the  water  with  a  splash.  An 
other  moment,  and  the  entire  raft  was  in, 
and  held  against  the  wall  by  the  exertion 
of  all  of  Hanny's  strength,  as  he  leaned 
down  to  it,  and  the  dark  water  tugged  and 
strained. 

"  Now,  Morrison,  quick !  Get  down, 
and  fix  yourself  at  that  end !  Twist  your 
legs  under  the  boards,  and  hold  tight !  " 

Morrison  showed  an  alert   certainty  in 


FROM   BLACKWELL'S  73 

his  movements  that  was  astonishing.  He 
crept  over  the  edge  like  a  cat,  and  felt  his 
way  to  his  place.  "  I'm  ready,"  he  said. 

"  Here — take  this  piece  of  wood.  You 
can  paddle  with  it,  and  change  sides  as  I 
tell  you.  I've  got  another  like  it  for  this 
end.  Don't  get  washed  off — and  here 
goes  !  An'  if  it's  good-by  for  us — well, 
good-by ! " 

He  gave  the  raft  a  vigorous  push  toward 
mid-stream.  The  raft  heaved  and  swayed. 
Before  the  middle  of  the  river  was  reached 
the  current  was  on  them  in  almost  its  full 
strength,  and  every  moment  it  grew  worse, 
for  the  tide  was  changing.  Blackwell's 
Island  is  but  a  little  below  Hell  Gate,  and 
the  river  boils  and  whirls  in  fury. 

For  a  while  the  men  paddled  frantically, 
but  soon  they  flung  the  pieces  of  wood 
aside  and  twisted  their  arms  about  the 
raft.  They  clung  in  desperation.  Toward 
the  Metropolitan  Hospital  they  were  car 
ried  by  an  eddying  current,  and  now  Mor 
rison's  end  was  the  front,  and  now  Han- 
ny's,  while  the  next  moment  the  raft 
would  float  broadside  or  circle  round  and 
round.  A  fiercer  current  bore  them  back. 


74  OVER   THE   RIVER 

The  river  churned  more  wildly.  The 
waves  washed  over  the  men,  deluging  and 
almost  choking  them.  The  white  caps  of 
the  waves  were  tossed  into  their  faces  in 
showers. 

A  big  steamer,  with  its  decks  crowded 
with  passengers,  swept  by,  and  they  heard 
the  music  of  a  band  and  the  laughter  of 
the  men  and  women.  They  cried  out  to 
gether,  but  their  hoarse  wail  was  unheard. 
The  swell  of  the  steamer  piled  the  waves 
still  higher.  The  long  boards  dipped  and 
swung  in  vicious  jerks,  for  the  current  was 
not  only  swift  but  full  of  whirls  and  ed 
dies,  and  again  great  waves  rolled  over  the 
men  and  again  they  choked  for  breath  as 
they  emerged. 

Another  steamer  passed,  and  Hanny 
gave  a  cry.  "  I'm  off  !"  he  screamed.  For 
the  tugging  current  had  finally  so  be 
numbed  his  arms  that  he  could  barely 
clasp  the  boards;  and  an  eddying  wrench, 
that  came  with  the  strength  as  of  hands  of 
steel,  had  dragged  him  from  his  hold. 

Morrison  heard  him,  and  grappled  for 
htm  with  a  desperate  grasp.  The  swirling 
boards  swung  the  two  men  together,  and 


FROM   BLACKWELL'S  75 

with  a  cry  of  joy  the  blind  man  seized  his 
friend  and  dragged  him  back  to  the  raft. 
The  cords  parted.  The  heaving  waves 
threw  one  board  upon  the  other.  But  the 
wiry  strength  of  Morrison  exerted  itself  in 
a  supreme  effort,  and  his  legs  and  arms 
took  the  place  of  cords,  and  held  the 
boards  together  for  a  few  moments  till 
Hanny,  his  own  strength  restored  by  the 
imminence  of  his  peril,  also  grasped  them 
round  about  with  his  arms. 

From  the  first  Hanny  had  been  distract 
edly  praying,  and  vowing  all  sorts  of  vows 
if  his  life  would  but  be  spared,  and  now 
the  vowing  and  the  praying  recommenced. 
Between  his  prayers  he  shouted  encourage 
ment  to  his  companion,  but  Morrison  was 
very  silent  and  scarcely  spoke. 

Below  Blackwell's  Island  the  raft  was 
swiftly  spun  close  to  the  Long  Island  City 
shore,  and  the  violence  of  the  current 
rapidly  disappeared.  Hanny  tried  to  get 
his  bearings.  He  saw  the  smoke  and  the 
li^ht  of  mills  and  refineries.  A  great 

o  " 

glare  shot  up  from  a  chimney,  and  for  a 
few  moments  he  saw  a  wide  expanse  of 
water,  and  the  lines  of  docks,  and  great 


76  OVER   THE   RIVER 

ferry-boats,  and  the  outlines  of  the  huge 
buildings  on  the  Island,  that  they  were 
fast  leaving  behind  them.  A  period  of 
relief  followed.  The  current  grew  less 
and  less  rapid.  The  raft  was  carried 
diagonally  across  the  river,  toward  the 
New  York  side.  Opposite  Twenty-third 
street  a  ferry-boat  almost  ran  into  it.  The 
men  called  out,  and  a  deck-hand  heard 
them  and  peered  over  the  edge.  Proba 
bly,  however,  he  did  not  see  them.  They 
were  too  tired,  and  too  much  overcome  by 
the  reaction  after  the  strain  of  deadly 
peril,  to  call  out  again,  although  several 
other  boats  passed  close  to  them.  As 
they  neared  the  rounding  point  at  Grand 
Street,  Hanny  saw  that  they  were  gradu 
ally  nearing  shore.  His  energy  reawoke. 

"  Paddle  with  your  arms,  Morrison ! 
I'll  kick  with  my  leg  and  steer  with  my 
crutch  !  "  he  cried. 

Until  now,  his  crutch  had  been  tightly 
bound  at  his  side,  he  having  taken  this 
precaution  before  embarking  on  the  raft  at 
the  Island.  The  boards  were  slowly  pro 
pelled  into  a  slip.  The  tide  was  high,  and 
Hanny  looked  for  a  spot  where  they  could 


FROM   BLACKWELL'S  77 

most  easily  clamber  to  the  top  of  the  dock. 
The  blind  man  went  up  first.  Then  he 
turned  and  reached  for  his  companion's 
arm.  Hanny,  almost  exhausted,  was 
drawn  up,  and  the  two  men  sat  there 
shivering  and  trembling,  now  that  the 
danger  was  past. 

Morrison  was  the  first  to  realize  the 
necessity  of  moving.  The  dock  was  black 
and  deserted.  But  they  went  toward  the 
nearest  lights,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Hanny 
learned  where  they  were.  He  had  a  little 
money,  saved  from  a  small  sum  a  relative 
had  sent  him,  and  he  was  generously  will 
ing  to  spend  it.  He  led  Morrison  to  where 
they  could  get  a  warming  drink.  The 
saloon-keeper  looked  at  them  in  surprise, 
but  asked  no  questions.  They  went  to  a 
fifteen-cent  Bowery  lodging-house,  leaving 
a  dripping  trail  along  the  sidewalks,  and 
both  were  so  fatigued  that  they  were  soon 
asleep,  in  spite  of  the  hardness  of  their 
bunks  and  the  turmoil  of  their  thoughts. 

The  forenoon  of  the  next  day  they  spent 
at  the  dingy  public  room  of  the  lodging- 
house,  only  going  out  to  get  breakfast  at  a 
St.  Andrew's  stand.  They  had  a  bun  and 


78  OVER   THE   RIVER 

a  cup  of  coffee  apiece,  and  Hanny  paid 
four  cents  in  all.  At  noon,  at  the  same 
stand,  they  each  drank  two  cups  of  coffee, 
and  each  of  them  also  ate  two  buns  and  a 
dish  of  pork  and  beans.  For  this,  Hanny 
paid  ten  cents.  Then  the  men  went  slowly 
to  Washington  Square  and  sat  down  on  a 
bench  in  the  shadow  of  Washington  Arch. 

"  We're  by  an  arch  made  by  the  man 
who  made  the  Declaration  of  Independ 
ence,"  said  Hanny.  "  He's  the  man  that 
made  us  all  free,  you  know." 

Morrison  did  not  notice  the  shuffle  and 
murmur  of  the  gathering  crowd,  for  his 
ears  were  strained  to  catch  the  first  notes 
of  the  music  of  the  New  Army.  The 
throng  ranged  itself  along  both  sides  of 
the  road  by  which  the  procession  would 
approach  the  Arch.  At  length  the  wail 
ing  funeral  dirge  struck  Morrison's  ear. 

o  o 

"  They're  coming  !  "  he  cried  ;  and  groups 
about  him  turned  toward  him  in  surprise, 
so  full  of  solemn  joy  was  the  sound  of  his 
words. 

"  Take  my  arm,  Hanny."  And  the  two 
moved  to  the  front  of  the  line,  for  the  peo 
ple  fell  aside  to  give  the  old  men  place. 


FROM   BLACKWELL'S  79 

Morrison  forgot  his  fatigue  and  stiffness. 
His  old  muscles  grew  very  tense,  and  he 
stood  very  vigilant  and  straight.  Hanny 
braced  himself  on  his  crutch,  and  stood  as 
erect  as  he  could  beside  him.  The  notes 
of  the  dirge  grew  louder  and  stronger,  as 
the  head  of  the  procession  left  Broadway 
and  moved  across  the  Square. 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  spectators.  Be 
tween  throngs  of  bare-headed  men,  and 
women  in  whose  eyes  shone  tears,  the 
regiment  slowly  marched.  Morrison  stood 
rigidly  at  salute.  "  The  Dead  March  from 
Saul"  sounded  solemnly.  A  few  people 
looked  wonderingly  at  the  weeping  blind 
man. 

"  The  New  Army ! "  he  whispered. 
"  The  New  Army  !  " 

"  Many  of  'em's  yellow-faced,  and 
many's  peaked  and  thin,"  said  Hanny. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Morrison.  "And  when 
any  of  them  come  to  the  Island,  Friend 
less  Post  will  be  proud  of  them,  and  make 
them  welcome." 

Into  Fifth  Avenue  the  regiment  turned. 
The  band  ceased.  There  was  but  the 
muffled  beat  of  the  drums,  and  as  the  line 


8o  OVER    THE    RIVER 

passed  on  the  sounds  became  inaudible, 
even  to  Morrison's  ears.  But  he  heard  a 
beating  that  was  more  to  him — the  slow 
foot-falls  of  the  soldiers,  with  now  and  then 
a  gentle  clink  of  steel.  There  was  a  break 
in  the  foot-falls,  marking  a  gap  in  the  line. 
A  profounder  silence  fell  upon  the  crowd. 

"  It's  the  colors !  "  whispered  Morrison. 
"And  they're  draped  in  black  !  I  know — 
I  know  !  " 

Another  battalion  followed,  and  then 
came  the  slow  rumbling  of  wheels.  "  The 
coffins  are  on  caissons,"  said  Hanny. 

"  I  hear  them — I  know— I  know  !  And 
there  are  flags  around  them,  too !  Poor 
fellows  —  poor  fellows!  But  ar'n't  the 
people  proud  of  them,  Hanny  ?  Ar'n't 
they  proud  ?  " 

The  last  caisson  rumbled  by.  Morrison 
and  Hanny  fell  in  hesitatingly,  at  the  rear 
of  the  line.  So  slowly  did  the  procession 
move  that  the  blind  man  and  the  cripple 
could  keep  up  with  it.  Fearful  that  at 
any  momenta  policeman  might  order  them 
aside,  but  exulting  with  every  step  that 
they  were  allowed  to  follow,  the  old  veter 
ans  passed  under  the  Washington  Arch, 


FROM   BLACKWELL'S 


81 


and  up   the  great    avenue  of  wealth.     It 

would  have  been  easy  to  fancy  that  the 

blind  man  and   the   cripple   were   boding 

ghosts  of  the  past,  following  ill-omenedly 

after  the  soldiers  of  the  present,  had  it  not 

been   for   the 

happiness 

that    shone 

on   Hanny's 

face  and  the 

rapt  joy  that 

transfigured 

Morrison's. 

A  great 
crowd  was 
gathered  at 
the  regimen 
tal  armory, 
and  there, 
too,  there  was 
a  profound 
silence,  as  the 
soldiers  passed  in  and  the  caissons  rum 
bled  up  to  the  entrance.  Hanny  had  be 
come  bold.  He  led  Morrison  to  the  door. 
"  We're  old  soldiers,"  he  said. 

The  sentinel  was  thin  and  pale.     The 


82  OVER   THE   RIVER 

campaign  had  left  its  marks  on  him.  He 
looked  at  the  old  veterans,  saluted,  and  let 
them  pass.  "  I  may  come  to  that  myself," 
he  thought. 

Morrison  and  Hanny  sat  on  a  pile  of 
accoutrements  at  one  side  of  the  armory. 
Hanny  looked  on  with  a  happiness  that 
was  largely  owing  to  his  being  permitted 
to  enter  such  a  place  while  the  public  were 
still  held  at  the  door.  Morrison  listened 
to  every  sound  with  awed  intentness,  and 
was  living  over  again  the  days  of  his  own 
army  life.  The  tramping  of  the  soldiers 
over  the  great  wooden  floor,  the  low-voiced 
orders,  and  the  clattering  fall  of  the  butts 
on  the  boards,  thrilled  through  and 
through  him.  At  length  the  doors  were 
thrown  open,  and  he  listened  to  the  soft 
shuffle  of  the  people  passing  by,  as  the 
bodies  lay  in  state. 

One  of  the  soldiers,  recognizing  that 
they  were  veterans,  led  the  old  fellows  to 
the  armory  kitchen,  and  saw  that  they 
were  fed.  At  length  the  time  came  that 
they  dared  stay  no  longer,  and  they  left 
the  armory  and  made  their  way  to  the 
ferry  landing. 


FROM   BLACKWELL'S  83 

It  was  hours,  that  night,  before  the  two 
men,  tired  though  they  were,  could  get  to 
sleep.  Their  brains  were  in  a  whirl,  and 
over  and  over  again  they  revolved  the 
events  of  the  past  two  days. 

"  I'm  proud  of  my  country  !  "  That  was 
what  Morrison  most  frequently  whispered 
to  himself,  while  the  other  blind  men  slept 
around  him. 

"  I'm  proud  of  my  country !  I'm  proud 
I'm  an  American  !  I'm  proud  of  the  New 
Army  !  And  if  a  blind  man's  life  could 
help  any,  I'd  be  glad  to  give  it." 

With  a  smile  on  his  lips,  he  dropped  off 
into  a  doze,  but  in  a  little  while  awoke 
again,  his  mind  still  in  a  tumult  of  excite 
ment  and  joy. 

"  Hurrah  for  America!  "  he  exclaimed, 
aloud,  before  he  realized  where  he  was. 

"  Silence  in  the  ward,  there  !  "  growled 
the  sleepy  attendant. 


A    POLICE    COURT    EPISODE 


A    POLICE    COURT    EPISODE 

IT  was  in  one  of  the  New  York  police 
courts,  and  it  was  as  if  the  little  waif 
had  dropped  in  from  another  world  to 
look  upon  the  city's  sin  and  misery,  which 
flowed  through  the  court  in  a  stream  of 
wretched  humanity.  The  boy  was  eight 
years  old,  and  for  three  years  had  lived 
with  the  Shakers  of  Canaan  Four  Corners. 
His  mother,  who  had  left  him  there,  had 
recently  written,  begging  that  he  be  re 
turned  to  her,  and  the  good  Shakers  had, 
with  some  misgivings,  complied.  The  el 
ders  had  bidden  him  a  grave  good-by,  the 
sisters  had  cried  over  him  a  little,  and  the 
few  children  of  the  little  settlement  had 
looked  on  in  round-eyed  wonder,  as  their 
playmate  in  the  solemn  games  of  the  quiet 
place  set  forth  on  his  journey  into  the 
strange  world  of  which  they  had  heard  the 
brethren  and  sisters  speak  with  such  awe 
and  fear. 

87 


88          A   POLICE   COURT   EPISODE 

The  boy's  mother  wrote  that  she  would 
be  at  the  Grand  Central  Station  to  meet 
him,  but  she  was  not  there,  and  after  some 
hours  of  futile  waiting,  he  was  taken  in 
charge  by  a  policeman,  and  delivered  to 
the  care  of  a  children's  society,  who  in  turn 
sent  him  to  the  court,  for  the  formal  orders 
of  the  magistrate.  The  little  fellow  sat  be 
tween  the  officer  of  the  society  and  a  re 
porter,  and  from  time  to  time  he  spoke  of 
his  life  at  the  Shaker  village,  and  told  his 
companions  how  the  scenes  enacted  before 
his  eyes  in  the  court  appeared  to  him. 
His  voice  was  soft,  and  his  features  were 
refined.  He  was  dressed  in  a  neat  suit  of 
gray,  of  Shaker  cut. 

"  Eldress  Marion  made  it  for  me,"  he 
said  ;  and  his  eyes  brightened  as  he  spoke 
of  her.  "  But  everyone  at  theShaker  vil 
lage  is  always  well  dressed,"  he  added, 
looking  in  a  puzzled  way  at  the  rags  and 
filth  of  a  couple  of  prisoners,  who  at  that 
moment  were  led  to  the  bar.  "  I — I  think 
I  don't  quite  understand  it.  Don't  the 
sisters  see  to  mending  clothes  here  ?  " 

His  face  again  brightened  as  he  spoke  of 
the  house  in  which  he  lived.  "  A  house 


A   POLICE   COURT   EPISODE          89 

as  big  as  this  !  But  there  aren't  as  many 
brethren  and  sisters  there  as  there  are  in 
this  one  room.  And  the  men  and  the 
women  never  walk  away  touching  each 
other,  as  they  do  here.  I  never  saw  even 
an  elder  take  hold  of  a  sister's  arm.  And 
they  never  go  down  the  same  stairs,"  he 
added,  as  he  watched  a  policeman  lead  a 
woman  to  the  prison  stairway. 

A  girl  in  tawdry  finery  walked  to  the 
bar,  and  wept,  and  hung  her  head,  ringed 
in,  as  she  was,  by  a  row  of  pitiless  eyes, 
that  regarded  her  without  a  touch  of  sym 
pathy.  The  boy  looked  on  with  pained 
wonder.  The  sharp  voice  of  the  judge, 
the  clamor  of  frequent  disputes  between 
prisoners  and  witnesses,  the  buzzing, 
droning  undertone  of  sound,  the  close, 
foul  air,  all  troubled  him.  But  he  was 
happy  again,  as  he  told  how,  on  the  top 
of  each  great  Shaker  building,  is  a  little 
tower  with  a  big  bell,  and  how  the  peo 
ple  gather  when  they  hear  the  clanging 
strokes.  His  voice  had  a  touch  of  awe  as 
he  spoke  of  the  religious  services,  and  de 
scribed  how,  in  swaying  lines,  the  brethren 
and  sisters  moved  about  the  room,  gather- 


90          A   POLICE   COURT   EPISODE 

ing  a  blessing  in  their  upturned  palms,  and 
how  they  sweetly  sang  together — 

But  he  quivered  and  stopped,  as  from 
the  "pen,"  just  out  of  sight,  came  the 
drunken  song  of  a  woman.  His  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  he  stirred  restlessly,  and  his 
voice  faltered,  as  he  asked,  as  he  had  asked 
before,  where  we  thought  his  mother  was, 
and  why  she  had  not  come  to  meet  him. 
We  got  him  to  talk  about  her  and  to  tell 
us  how  she  looked.  She  was  pretty,  he 
said,  and  did  not  dress  at  all  like  the 
sisters  of  the  Shaker  community.  He  re 
membered  that  she  used  to  cry  a  good 
deal,  and  sometimes  she  would  sing  to 
him  to  get  him  to  sleep  ;  "  and  sometimes 
there  were  tears  in  her  voice,  and  then  I 
would  cry  ;  and  then  she  would  pick  me 
up  in  her  arms,  and  kiss  me,  and  try  to 
make  me  happy  again.  And  once  in  a 
while  there  was  singing  or  quarrelling  in 
the  next  room,  after  mother  had  left  me, 
thinking  I  was  asleep,  but  I  did  not  like 
that  singing  so  much." 

The  drunken  song  stopped,  to  be  suc 
ceeded  by  drunken  yells;  and  the  boy 
shuddered.  But  the  cries  soon  ceased, 


A   POLICE   COURT   EPISODE          91 

and  he  was  led  to  speak  again  of  the 
pleasant  life  at  the  Shaker  settlement. 
He  told  of  the  great  fields  of  grain,  and 
how  he  used  to  trudge  after  the  reapers. 
"  And  there  were  eight  calves,  and  a 
big  black  heifer,  too  ! "  He  forgot  the 
misery  and  sin  about  him,  and  his  face 
was  eagerly  aglow.  "  And  you  just  go  to 
Bridge  Hill,  and  you  see  a  white  gate;  and 
it  was  at  that  gate  that  I  saw  mother  for 
the  last  time,  when  she  went  away  after 
leaving  me  with  the  good  folks." 

The  drunken  woman  who  had  been 
singing  was  led  into  the  court,  and  with 
shambling  jauntiness  stepped  to  the  bar. 
Her  dress,  although  of  good  quality,  was 
draggly,  and  it  was  clear  that  she  had  been 
in  the  gutter.  She  leered  knowingly  at 
the  judge.  The  boy's  hand  spasmodically 
clutched  the  reporter's  arm.  The  little 
fellow  was  gasping  convulsively. 

"  Mother  !  "  he  screamed. 

The  woman  turned  toward  him.  For  a 
moment  she  was  dazed,  and  then,  like  a 
flash,  full  comprehension  came  to  her.  Her 
face  grew  horribly  white  and  drawn. 

"  My  God  !  "  she  cried. 


THE    EXPERIMENT    OF   FREDERICA 


THE   EXPERIMENT   OF   FREDERICA 

PREDERICA  BLUHME  was  twelve 
1  years  old  before  she  saw  actual  dark 
ness.  Then  it  frightened  her,  being  so 
unexpected,  and  she  cried  out  in  fear. 

She  had  been  reared  on  the  teeming 
East  Side.  The  rooms,  on  the  top  floor 
of  the  big  tenement,  just  off  Grand  Street, 
were  four  in  number  and  small.  The 
tenement  was  one  story  higher  than  its 
immediate  neighbors,  and  at  all  hours  of 
the  night  the  uncurtained  windows  of  the 
Bluhmes'  rooms  looked  forth  upon  a  cer 
tain  degree  of  brightness.  From  every 
side  there  was  the  glow  of  lamps  or  gas  or 
electricity.  The  street  was  brilliant;  the 
court-yard,  with  a  little  light  on  a  pole, 
was  but  murkily  half-shadowed  ;  from  the 
side  windows,  there  was  a  bright  glow  in 
the  air;  the  hall  was  dimly  lit  throughout 
the  night. 

95 


96   THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Frederica  had 
never  seen  the  full  black  of  night.  When 
she  first  saw  it,  it  was  at  a  Fresh  Air 
Home  in  the  Croton  River  country  at  the 
northern  edge  of  Westchester  County,  and 
she  had  keenly  enjoyed  the  day  to  which 
the  dark  night  shut  in  with  such  a  sombre 
finish.  She  had  at  times  in  the  past  been 
taken  to  Central  Park  or  the  Bronx  ;  once 
her  parents  had  even  taken  her  and  her 
two  brothers  on  an  outing  for  a  day  into 
New  Jersey ;  but  of  the  real  country  she 
had  known  nothing. 

As  an  attendant  at  a  Sunday  school 
whose  managers  were  interested  in  a  fresh- 
air  movement,  and  as  a  child  of  parents 
who,  though  not  poor,  did  not  feel  able  to 
send  their  children  to  the  country  to  board 
during  part  of  the  hot  weather,  Frederica 
was  chosen  as  one  of  the  hundreds  of  for 
tunate  ones  to  be  sent  to  the  Home.  The 
first  day  was  a  wild  delight.  There  was 
the  excitement  of  going  to  the  train,  then 
the  long  railroad  ride  of  an  hour  and  a 
half — a  ride  that  she  hoped  would  never 
end,  so  filled  with  amazement  was  she, 
as  mile  after  mile  slipped  by.  She  had 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA   97 

never  supposed  there  was  so  much  coun 
try. 

Then  came  the  entrancing  ride  in  the 
big  'bus,  with  a  score  of  other  children, 
boys  and  girls,  each  one  yelling  at  the  top 
of  his  voice;  and  then  the  getting  out  at 
the  huge  building  of  the  Home;  and  the 
big  dinner,  and  the  hours  of  frantically 
dashing  across  fields,  and  wading  in  the 
brook,  and  climbing  trees,  and  gathering 
armfuls  of  weeds  and  grasses  and  flowers ; 
and  then,  all  wearied  and  out  of  breath, 
the  answering  rush  to  the  supper  call  of 
the  big  bell,  and  then  prayers  and  bed. 

Frederica's  bed  was  a  narrow  cot,  close 
to  a  window,  and  the  girl,  tired  though 
she  was,  did  not  immediately  fall  asleep. 
The  lights  were  extinguished,  but  for  a 
while,  outside  of  the  window,  there  was 
the  shadowy  after-glow  of  the  day.  Fred- 
erica  crept  to  the  window,  leaned  with 
her  arms  on  the  sill,  and  looked  out.  The 
glow  faded  into  a  beautiful  dimness,  her 
tired  little  head  dropped  on  her  arms,  and 
she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  woke  it  was  with  a  start,  and 
she  felt  sore  and  stiff.  There  was  a  pitchy 


98    THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

darkness.  It  was  one  of  those  black  nights 
in  which  the  hand  cannot  be  seen  an  inch 
in  front  of  the  face.  And  not  only  was 
there  the  awful  darkness.  The  air  was 
filled  with  sounds  for  which  her  New 
York  life  had  not  prepared  her.  There 
were  the  chirring  of  crickets,  the  croaking 
of  multitudinous  frogs,  the  sawing  note  of 
the  katydids,  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  tree- 
toad,  the  malignant  note  of  the  screech- 
owl. 

To  Frederica  it  was  all  a  frightful  night 
mare.  She  shudderingly  drew  back  from 
the  window,  and  then  her  fear  found  voice 
in  screams.  The  matron  came  and  soothed 
her,  and  made  a  light,  and  talked  with 
her,  but  it  was  not  till  morning  that  the 
little  girl  was  fully  composed. 

In  spite  of  the  fright,  the  second  day 
brought  a  renewal  of  the  joys  of  the  coun 
try.  The  trees,  the  running  water,  the  wild 
freedom  of  it  all,  the  apples  actually  grow 
ing  on  the  trees  !  And  the  feeding  of  chick 
ens,  and  the  milking!  Those  were  never- 
ending  delights.  And  most  astonishing  of 
all  was  the  fact  that  the  brook  that  ran 
through  the  fields  flowed  into  Plum  Creek, 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA   99 

and  that  Plum  Creek  flowed  into  the  Cro- 
ton  River,  and  that  Croton  River  emptied 
into  a  great  lake,  from  which  its  water 
was  sent  in  huge  pipes  to  New  York  City  ! 
When  Frederica  was  told  all  this  it  was 
almost  too  much  of  a  marvel  to  believe. 
Was  it  really  true  that  the  water  which 
flowed  right  past  her  there  might  flow 
through  the  faucet  into  her  own  tenement 
home  ?  It  was  so  strange  that  the  idea 
made  her  gasp.  When,  at  the  end  of  two 
weeks,  she  was  taken  back  to  her  city 
home,  she  was  full  of  the  marvel  of  coun 
try  joys  and  of  the  miracle  of  the  city's 
water. 

The  next  year,  Frederica  was  sent  for 
another  two  weeks  to  the  country,  but 
after  that  the  preference  was  given  to 
younger  children,  and  for  some  years  she 
saw  no  more  of  the  country  than  could  be 
viewed  from  the  decks  of  excursion  steam 
ers  as  they  sailed  up  the  Sound  or  on  the 
Shrewsbury  River. 

As  the  members  of  the  family  grew 
older,  and  the  two  brothers  secured  work, 
the  circumstances  of  the  household  grew 
brighter,  and  there  was  much  of  gayety 


loo   THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

and  of  little  pleasures,  for  the  father  and 
mother  knew  the  value  of  keeping  the 
children  happy  at  home.  But  there  were 
no  vacations  in  the  country,  and  year  by 
year  Frederica's  love  and  longing  for  the 
country  increased.  She  grew  to  likable 
young  womanhood.  There  was  a  demure 
shyness  about  her  expression,  combined 
with  an  effervescently  droll  tendency  to 
fun,  that  made  her  peculiarly  attractive. 
Her  brown  eyes  were  honest  and  deep. 
Her  thick  hair,  golden-tinted,  was  coiled 
around  the  crown  of  her  head  like  a  coro 
net.  When,  once  in  a  while,  she  let  it 
hang,  twin-braided,  down  her  back,  and 
smiled  demurely,  while  joy  laughed  from 
her  eyes,  she  was  quaintly  pretty  indeed. 

Hers  was  a  sensitive  soul,  but  she  was 
strong  and  brave  as  well,  did  faithfully  her 
share  of  the  duties  of  the  household,  and 
was  both  gay  and  helpful.  Her  nature 
had  in  it  a  vivid  love  for  music  and  danc 
ing.  As  a  child,  she  had  danced,  on  the 
sidewalks,  as  did  the  other  tenement  chil 
dren,  to  the  music  of  the  street  pianos  as 
they  made  their  rounds  ;  and  there  was  a 
verve  and  grace  about  her  motions  that 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    103 

distinguished  her  dancing  from  that  of 
others  beside  her.  As  she  grew  older,  she 
was  in  great  demand  at  parties  and  picnics. 
Her  parents  did  not  try  to  check  her  im 
pulses,  but  they  unremittingly  watched 
her  development  and  the  character  of 
her  companions.  The  brothers  frequently 
brought  friends  home  with  them,  and  this, 
too,  broadened  Frederica's  acquaintance 
with  young  men. 

Both  of  her  parents  possessed  a  homely 
shrewdness.  They  inculcated  on  the  girl 
a  policy  of  frankness  and  showed  her  that 
they  were  in  sympathy  with  her  life  and 
joys.  They  were  both  from  the  happy 
Rhine  country,  and  often,  when  their 
children  were  out,  they  would  lovingly 
talk  over  the  days  of  their  own  youth;  the 
vine-clad  hills,  and  the  sweeping  breadth 
of  water,  and  the  sparkle  and  gayety  of 
their  life,  which  was  like  the  sparkle  and 
gayety  of  their  genial  wines;  of  flower 
garlands,  and  of  dances  where  round  and 
round  great  circles  wheeled,  hand  in 
hand. 

"  Our  Frederica  would  love  the  Rhine 
country,  eh,  my  Lena  ?  " 


104   THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

"  Indeed,  yes,  my  Diedrich  !  " 

And  the  two  would  smile  fondly  at  each 
other,  and  think  again  of  the  dancing  and 
happiness  of  their  youth,  and  of  the  green- 
bordered  river  and  the  old  cast'es,  though 
they  were  not  antiquarians,  and  the  two 
old  ruins  near  their  home  had  been,  to 
them,  merely  places  to  which  the  young 
people  of  their  neighborhood  would  troop, 
for  a  day's  outing. 

"  But,  Diedrich,  what  I  am  anxious 
about  is  that  our  Frederica  shall  get  as 
good  a  husband  as  your  Lena  did ! " 

Whereupon  Diedrich  would  flush  with 
pleasure,  and  drop  into  German  words  and 
idioms,  long  disused. 

"  Ja,  ja !  She  will  a  good  husband  get ! 
Frederica  the  dancing  likes — ja  ! — but  she 
the  good  sense  also  has !  Das  ist  so, 
meine  Lena!" 

With  her  brothers,  or  with  friends, 
Frederica  often  went  out ;  to  gay  parties, 
to  dances,  to  the  recreation  piers,  to  moon 
light  or  Sunday  excursions  on  some 
steamer.  Her  life  was  full  of  pleasure ; 
and  what  she  most  liked  was  the  constant 
meeting  with  people  that  she  knew ;  mani- 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    105 

festing,  in  this,  the  gregariousness  of  her 
temperament. 

She  even  liked  the  mingling  with  the 
customers,  some  of  whom  she  knew  but  by 
sight,  in  the  little  grocery  store  on  the 
ground  floor  of  the  tenement.  The  pro 
prietor  of  the  store  was  Philip  Mehling, 
and  he  was  shrewd,  saving,  and  economical. 
He  was  a  good-looking  young  fellow,  quite 
reserved,  and  mistakenly  thought,  by  some, 
to  be  a  trifle  slow.  Even  when  in  gay  com 
pany  he  seldom  danced,  yet  was  genial,  in 
his  quiet,  self-centred  way,  and  had  many 
friends.  His  closest  companion  was  George 
Barth,  a  bright  young  fellow  who  loved 
dancing  and  music  as  much  as  did  Fred- 
erica  herself.  Barth  knew  the  Bluhmes 
well,  and  was  often  Frederica's  companion 
and  escort.  He  would  often  chide  Philip 
on  his  quietness,  and  on  his  inattention  to 
girls  and  to  the  gayeties  of  life. 

"There  you  are,  living  in  the  little  room 
at  the  back  of  your  store  !  Spending  so 
much  of  your  time  alone !  And  what  do 
you  eat  ?  And  how  do  you  take  care  of 
yourself  ?  You've  got  money  enough,  and 
ought  to  look  around  for  a  wife  !  " 


io6    THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

It  was  with  surprise  that  Barth  finally 
discovered  that  Mehling  was  in  love,  and 
with  Frederica — for  he  was  in  love  with 
the  girl  himself. 

It  became  apparent  that,  among  her 
many  suitors,  her  choice  lay  between  those 
two.  The  young  men  remained  as  close 
friends  as  ever.  They  said  to  each  other 
that  what  they  wanted  was  that  Frederica 
should  be  happy.  Their  rivalry  made  no 
discord.  Each  worked  toward  the  same 
goal,  and  Barth  was  far  the  more  confident. 
He  saw  to  it  that  Frederica's  life  was  a 
round  of  happiness.  Music,  parties,  excur 
sions,  candy,  dancing — and  all  his  atten 
tions  were  offered  with  such  ease  that  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  be  with  him. 

But  once  in  awhile  the  slower  Mehling, 
on  evenings  when  she  was  not  engaged 
away  from  home,  sat  and  talked  with  her. 
He,  like  her  parents,  was  from  the  Rhine 
country,  and  he  spoke  of  the  fields  and  the 
flowers,  of  the  meadows  wet  with  dew,  of 
the  vine-clad  cottages.  But  he  also  talked 
of  what  was  more  interesting  to  her.  For 
a  time,  after  coming  to  this  country,  he 
had  lived  with  a  relative,  on  a  farm  in 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    107 

central  New  York  ;  and  he  told  her  of  the 
lowing  cattle,  the  ploughing  of  the  fields, 
the  springing  up  of  the  grain,  the  corn 
huskings,  and  of  the  great  turkeys,  leading 
their  broods  about.  And  he  made  her 
talk  of  her  own  brief  experiences  in  the 
country. 

"Oh!  How  I  love  it  all!"  she  would 
exclaim,  with  shining  eyes. 

With  a  shrewdness,  and  a  knowledge 
of  woman's  nature,  of  which  Barth  would 
never  have  suspected  him,  Mehling  gradu 
ally  began  to  turn  the  talks  from  his  own 
past  experiences,  and  her  reminiscences,  to 
suggestions  of  the  future.  Without  too 
boldly  making  his  advances,  he  yet  man 
aged  to  draw  comparisons  between  life  in 
crowded  New  York  and  life  where  there 
were  open  fields,  and  he  spoke  of  farm 
houses  in  which  a  single  room  was  equal 
in  area  to  that  of  an  entire  tenement  flat. 
And  he  noted  how  the  girl's  eyes  glowed. 

Gradually,  he  thought  it  all  out.  He 
himself  had  come  to  dislike  some  of  the 
conditions  of  crowded  life  in  New  York. 
Would  he  feel  satisfied  to  give  up  his  little 
business,  go  into  the  country,  and  become 


io8    THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

a  farmer  ?  He  feared  that  Frederica 
would  choose  Barth,  but  thought  her 
affection  was  not  so  firmly  fixed  but  that, 
with  life  in  the  country  thrown  into  his 
own  scale,  he  might,  after  all,  still  win 
her.  He  made  his  decisive  advance  with 
carefully  planned  abruptness,  after  a  more 
than  usually  enthusiastic  interchange  of 
ideas  regarding  the  country. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  making  a  great 
change,  Frederica." 

"  A  change  ?  "  she  said. 

"Yes.  I  am  going  to  give  up  my  store 
— give  up  my  life  in  the  city — and  go  away 
to  where  I  can  live  in  freedom  and  in  the 
midst  of  beauty.  I  am  going  to  be  a  farm 
er,  Frederica ! " 

"  Oh!  How  fine  that  will  be  !  How- 
glorious  !  "  she  exclaimed,  tremulous  with 
the  thought  of  the  happiness  that  was  to 
be  his.  "  And  will  you  write  and  tell  me 
all  about  the  things  you  see  and  do  there  ? 
And  where  is  it  going  to  be  ?  And  how 
soon  are  you  going  to  leave  us?  We  shall 
all  be  so  sorry  !  But  how  happy  you  will 
be!" 

"  I  do  not  want  to  go  alone,  Frederica," 


THE   EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA   109 

he  said,  gently.  "  I  do  not  know  how  soon 
I  shall  go,  or  where  I  shall  go.  If  the 
woman  that  I  love  will  go  with  me,  she 
shall  decide.  I  shall  go  as  soon  as  she  will 
go  with  me.  I  shall  go  to  some  place 
she  can  love.  Frederica — dear  Frederica — 
will  you  not  go  with  me  ?  Will  you  not 
make  me  happy  ?  Will  you  be  a  farmer's 
wife,  Frederica  ?  " 

And  Frederica,  with  flushed  face  and 
eyes  glowing  with  happiness,  said  that  she 
would  go.  Her  parents,  when  it  was  an 
nounced  to  them,  were  greatly  pleased. 
Barth  was  much  disappointed,  but  spoke 
to  Mehling  in  a  manly  way  of  his  victory, 
and  warmly  congratulated  him. 

The  wedding  took  place  in  a  hall  on 
Grand  Street,  and  the  half-dozen  carriages 
that  contained  the  nearest  relatives,  and 
closest  friends,  and  the  groomsman  and 
bridesmaids,  were  a  glow  of  color  and  of 
flowers.  They  were  duly  stared  at,  with 
open-mouthed  admiration  at  so  brave  a 
show,  and  followed  by  a  throng  of  scream 
ing  children.  The  hall  was  crowded,  the 
ceremony  was  breathlessly  watched  (es 
pecially  by  the  young  women),  and  then 


I  io    THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

there  were  music  and  dancing  and  a  glori 
ous  supper. 

Finding  that  Philip  really  meant  her  to 
choose  the  district  in  which  their  home  was 
to  be,  Frederica,  in  a  flutter  of  delight, 
fixed  upon  the  Croton  country,  for  it  was 
with  that  section  that  her  dearest  fancies 
lay.  Accompanied  by  Frederica  he  took 
a  flying  trip  to  the  region,  after  some  cor 
respondence  with  real-estate  agents,  and 
together  they  picked  out  a  beautiful  place, 
that  was  shortly  to  be  sold  under  foreclos 
ure.  Frederica  was  delighted,  and  Mehling 
soon  found  himself  the  owner  of  the  house 
and  farm  at  a  price  much  less  than  he  had 
anticipated. 

It  was  at  a  charming  spot  that  the  house 
was  located,  between  Round  Top  and 
Watermelon  Hill.  The  house  stood  well 
back  from  the  road,  and  from  its  porch 
there  was  a  magnificent  view.  There  was 
all  the  effect  of  a  mountainous  country, 
among  those  Croton  hills,  and  for  miles  and 
miles  the  eye  could  sweep  over  height  be 
yond  height,  till  the  last  hill  was  lost  in 
blue  and  purple  haze.  There  were  rolling 
hills,  wooded  crests,  wide  expanses  of  al- 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    in 

ternate  field  and  forest,  while  nearer  by 
were  the  homely  fields  of  grain  and  vegeta 
bles,  intercrossed  with  low  walls  of  stone. 
Frederica  had  no  words  of  praise ;  she  was 
stunned  with  happiness  ;  she  could  only 
turn  to  her  husband,  and  throw  her  arms 
around  him  in  a  transport  of  joy. 

Over  the  porch  clambered  a  great  trum 
pet  vine,  with  deep-throated  blossoms,  in 
clusters  of  splendid  orange.  A  "  bread  of 
heaven"  tree — an  ailantus — stood  in  front 
of  the  porch,  and  in  full  blossom  it  was 
another  wonder  and  glory.  Other  trees 
stood  near  by,  and  there  were  huge  flower 
ing  shrubs,  and  there  were  beds  of  flowers. 
Each  sunset  was  a  new  beauty ;  the  won 
derful  variety  made  Frederica  speechless 
with  awe,  while  great  stripes  and  glows  of 
varied  crimson  tints  faded  into  the  opaline 
hues  of  the  sky.  And  after  the  sunset,  the 
air  was  bright  with  myriads  of  fire-flies, 
while  far  above  all  twinkled  the  silent 
stars. 

And  there  were  the  cattle,  and  the  chick 
ens,  and  a  turkey  with  its  brood  of  little 
ones  ;  Frederica  almost  feared  that  she  was 
in  a  wonderful  dream.  And  then  Philip 


112    THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

drove  her,  one  day,  to  the  Fresh  Air  Home 
where  she  had  felt  her  first  taste  of  country 
joy,  and  she  watched  the  little  children 
playing  and  running  about,  just  as  she 
had  run  about,  years  before. 

"  O  Philip  !  You  have  been  so  good 
to  me !  " 

He  looked  at  her  fondly.  "  And  I  was 
afraid  you  would  choose  Barth,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  with  roguish  happiness.  "  I 
think  I  might  have  done  so  if  it  hadn't 
been  that  you  liked  the  country  as  much 
as  I  did  !  "  she  cried. 

He  felt  an  uncomfortable  sting,  and  then 
laughed  nervously.  She  did  not  notice  it. 

Before  long — although  she  did  not  con 
fess  this  to  her  husband — one  thing  began 
to  trouble  her.  She  wished  the  house 
were  on  the  main  road,  instead  of  a  private 
lane,  because  she  could  never  see  anyone 
passing.  She  learned,  after  a  time,  that 
even  if  she  could  see  them  all  she  would 
see  but  few,  for  it  was  a  lonely  road. 

The  first  visitor  came  to  the  house  when 
they  had  been  there  six  weeks.  It  was 
George  Barth,  who  had  been  so  cordially 
invited,  by  both,  that  he  had  taken  the  run 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    113 

up  there.  Her  parents  had  expected  to 
make  a  visit  before  this,  but  to  them  it  was 
a  serious  task,  to  be  long  and  solemnly 
schemed  for. 

The  visit  of  Barth  was  full  of  life. 
Mehling  himself,  during  much  of  the  time, 
was  necessarily  busy  with  farm  work,  but 
he  noticed  that  his  friend  devoted  himself 
to  making  Frederica  happy,  and  that  a  cer 
tain  sadness  that  he  had  fancied  had  grad 
ually  come  over  her,  was  disappearing. 
He  watched  her  anxiously.  Yes.  The  in 
tangible  weariness,  the  growing  forlornness, 
that  he  had  tried  to  believe  were  but  fancies 
on  his  part,  had  all  been  there,  for  now  he 
saw  that  they  were  going  away,  and  that 
day  by  day  Frederica  was  more  bright  and 
glowing. 

Each  evening  the  three  sat  together  and 
talked  of  the  past  and  of  the  future,  and 
alternated  jokes  and  pleasantries  and  seri 
ous  discussion.  Frederica  could  not  hear 
too  much  of  all  that  was  going  on  in  New 
York,  and  she  laughed  till  the  tears  came 
as  their  visitor  told  tale  after  tale  of  the 
gay  happenings  there.  Mehling,  eclipsed 
by  his  friend's  ebullience,  was,  for  the  most 


H4    THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

part,  rather  silent.  Once  in  a  while  an 
almost  lowering  expression  flitted  over  his 
face,  and  he  shifted  uneasily. 

There  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  his 
wife ;  but  he  began  to  wonder,  with  mel 
ancholy  self-questioning,  whether  he  was 
the  man  who  could  give  her  the  greatest 
happiness.  Had  there  been  a  mistake  ? 
He  glowered  at  the  floor,  listening  to  their 
mutual  laughter,  and  the  sound  came  to 
him  with  a  sinister  tang. 

"  What  are  you  so  silent  for  ?  "  cried  the 
gay  voice  of  Barth.  "  Tell  me  more  of 
what  you  do  up  here!  Do  you  like  the 
neighbors?"  He  turned  brightly  to  Fred- 
erica.  "  What  kind  of  people  are  they, 
and  how  do  you  get  on  with  them  ?" 

Frederica  faltered,  ever  so  little,  and 
glanced  at  her  husband,  who  said,  with  a 
grave  discomfort  that  his  friend  could  not 
but  notice  : 

"  We  know  little  of  them  as  yet.  We — 
in  fact  —  they  seem  like  very  nice  people. 
But  we  have  come  as  entire  strangers,  and 
it  will  be  a  little  slow  to  get  acquainted, 
very  well,  with  many  of  them." 

The  failure  of  even  a  single  one  of  the 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    115 

neighborhood  residents  to  call  was  a  bitter 
point  with  both  husband  and  wife,  al 
though  they  seldom  spoke  of  it.  The  hus 
band,  occupied  with  farm  work,  of  which 
he  had  much  to  learn,  and  going  back  and 
forth  over  his  fields,  or  busy  in  consultation 
with  his  hired  man,  who  knew  farming 
well,  did  not  feel  the  matter  as  did  his  wife. 
And,  too,  the  self-centred  quietness  of  his 
disposition  tended  additionally  to  make 
him  feel  the  neglect  more  as  a  slight  than 
a  deprivation.  He  was  more  angry  than 
sorry.  What  more  ought  a  man  to  wish 
for,  so  he  often  said  to  himself,  than  the 
wife  of  his  choice  and  a  home  in  that 
charming  country  ?  For  day  by  day  a  love 
for  the  country  grew  upon  him. 

He  never  suspected  that  Frederica's  pas 
sionate  love  for  the  country  could  decrease, 
and  therefore  it  was  that  he  ascribed  her 
growing  gloom,  and  then  its  temporary  re 
moval,  to  another  than  the  true  .cause. 

He  did  not  know  how  she  hungered  for 
pleasant  company.  She  had  driven  with 
him,  a  few  times,  to  the  nearest  town,  a 
tiny  bit  of  a  place,  three  miles  away,  but 
had  keenly  felt  that  the  few  people  whom 


ii6   THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

she  saw  looked  on  her  with  chill  disre 
gard.  That  none  of  them  wanted  to  speak 
in  a  friendly  way  became  only  too  appar 
ent,  and  she  stopped  going. 

Some  of  the  families  of  the  neighbor 
hood  were  descendants  of  ancestors  who 
had  lived  there  before  the  Revolution. 
Such  people  would  not  dream  of  associat 
ing  with  newcomers  who  so  evidently 
were  not  of  high  social  standing.  Other 
families  were  wealthy  and  exclusive.  Still 
others  were  poor,  but  exclusive.  Others 
were  not  exclusive,  but  were  too  poor  to 
essay  the  presumption  of  calling  on  people 
who  were  evidently  well-to-do. 

In  some  way — probably  through  remarks 
of  the  hired  man,  who  was  a  free-talking 
fellow,  and  who  had  tried  indefatigably  to 
draw  out  the  husband — the  impression  fil 
tered  through  the  strata  of  country  society 
that  the  Mehlings  were  from  a  tenement 
district  in  New  York  and  that  the  wife 
had  danced  a  great  deal.  This  fixed  their 
status.  A  dancing-woman  from  the  tene 
ments!  The  very  ones  who  danced  often- 
est  and  latest  at  the  local  gatherings  were 
the  bitterest  in  shunning  them. 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA   117 

And  one  man,  who  was  sixty-five  years 
old,  but  who  had  been  to  New  York  but 
once  in  his  entire  life,  declared,  with  an 
unequivocal  conviction  that  compelled  at 
tentive  consideration,  that  the  big  city  was 
not  a  good  place :  he  had  seen  many  bad 
women  there,  who  danced,  so  he  felt  sure, 
and  lived  in  the  tenements,  and  he  thought 
it  a  bad  sign — a  very  bad  sign  indeed. 

At  the  time  of  the  visit  of  Barth,  the 
Mehlings  had  come  to  realize  how  com 
pletely  they  were  to  be  cut  off.  To  Fred- 
erica,  it  meant  the  absence  of  what  had 
been  as  of  the  very  essence  of  life — the 
comradeship  of  pleasant  people.  Earth's 
visit  was  therefore  an  unmixed  joy  to  her, 
and  when  he  said  that  he  must  return  to 
New  York,  she  urged  him  to  remain,  with 
a  fervid  insistence  that  chilled  her  husband, 
who  bitterly  noticed  it,  to  the  heart.  When 
he  went  away,  her  eyes  followed  him  with 
a  longing  that  her  husband,  sadly  medita 
tive,  observed  with  a  painful  sorrow. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  following 
Earth's  departure,  Frederica  awoke  with  a 
shiver  of  fear.  The  night  was  pitchy  dark. 
She  listened,  tense  and  frightened.  The 


iiS   THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

air  was  filled  with  the  chirring  of  crickets, 
the  croaking  of  multitudinous  frogs,  the 
mingled  notes  of  tree-toads  and  katydids 
and  owls.  She  shuddered  with  the  fear 
that  overwhelmed  her,  and  then  could  re 
strain  herself  no  longer,  and  shrieked  aloud. 
Her  husband  awoke,  and  soothed  her,  and 
made  anxious  questioning  as  to  the  cause 
of  her  fright. 

"  I  feel  lonely — lonely — so  lonely  !  "  was 
all  that  Frederica  could  say. 

The  next  morning  he  said  nothing  about 
her  hysterical  outbreak.  He  thought 
that  he  understood  it,  and  he  was  too  big- 
hearted,  too  loyal  and  loving,  to  upbraid 
her  or  tax  her  with  a  change  of  heart.  She, 
poor  thing,  ascribed  his  silence  to  either  a 
lack  of  feeling  or  a  lack  of  interest  in  what 
most  deeply  concerned  her.  She  was  too 
proud  and  too  ashamed  to  try  to  talk  with 
him  about  it.  She  could  not  tell  him  that 
she  could  not  look  at  the  brook,  swirling 
rapidly  through  their  fields,  without  think 
ing  that  the  water  was  destined  to  go  to 
dear  New  York !  And  what  though  it 
was  to  be  imprisoned  with  other  water,  in 
a  great  reservoir,  and  then  made  to  run 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    119 


through  a  small  pipe  and  out  of  a  narrow 
faucet !  It  was  going  to  New  York,  and 
away  from  that  solitary  farm ! 

The  breach  be 
tween  the  husband 
and  wife,  impalpable 
at  first  and  then 
steadily  widening, 
began  gradually  to 
affect  their  natures. 
A  dourness  crept  in 
to  his,  gloom  into 
hers,  and  neither 
spoke  the  words  that 
would  have  tended 
toward  a  reuniting. 

Storms  came,  and 
Frederica  shuddered  as  the 
wind  blew,  and  the  rain  beat  on 
the  windows,  and  the  lightning 
flashed.  The  first  snow  fell,  and 
there  were  miles  of  dreary 
whiteness  visible  from  her 
chamber  window.  Other  snow 
storms  quickly  followed,  for  it 
was  an  unprecedentedly  early 
winter,  and  there  were  huge 


120  THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

drifts  piled  in  the  lane  that  led  out  to  the 
road.  The  lonely  terror  of  it  all  so  increased 
that  Frederica's  nerves  finally  began  to  give 
way,  and,  in  spite  of  her  protests  that  she 
was  not  sick,  Philip  sent  for  the  doctor  to 
come  and  see  her.  He  was  a  kindly 
man,  with  a  homely  wisdom  that  was  at 
tractive.  He  talked  pleasantly  with  the 
couple,  and  found  that  he  liked  them ;  and 
he  appreciated  their  loneliness,  though 
they  did  not  complain  of  it.  He  called 
again,  the  next  day. 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  to  transplant 
young  trees,  that  have  grown  up  in  the 
thickness  of  a  grove  ?  "  he  asked  of  Mehl- 
ing.  "No?  Well,  it  is  one  of  the  most  dif 
ficult  of  problems  to  make  a  tree  grow  up 
strong  and  healthy,  when  set  out  alone,  af 
ter  it  has  attained  its  strength  and  character 
in  the  midst  of  thick-crowded  numbers." 

Mehling  did  not  understand  him,  but, 
being  asked  to  tell  something  of  Frederica, 
in  the  hope  that  the  doctor  could  gain  im 
pressions  of  value  in  treating  her  curious 
case,  he  spoke  of  his  wife's  profound  affec 
tion  for  the  country;  he  told  how  she  had 
longed  for  it  for  years,  and  how  she  had  at 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA   121 

length  gained  what  she  so  desired.  When 
the  doctor  talked  with  Frederica,  he 
noticed  that  she  spoke  listlessly  of  her 
home  and  its  surroundings,  and  gave  no 
hint  that  she  found  any  particular  happi 
ness  in  them.  "  I  remember  how  I  used  to 
love  the  country,"  she  said. 

The  doctor  saw  there  was  a  coolness  be 
tween  the  two.  He  saw  that  the  husband 
was  touched  with  sorrowful  mistrust.  He 
saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  that  the  wife 
believed  her  husband  to  be  unsympathetic 
and  that  she  was  concealing  something 

o  o 

from  him.  And  they  were  both  so  honest 
and  true ! 

Gatherings  of  the  people  were  frequent, 
but  no  invitation  came  to  the  Mehlings. 
Now  and  then  gay  parties  would  go  by, 
on  "  straw  rides,"  and  the  shouts  and  the 
singing  would  come  as  a  pang  to  both 
husband  and  wife.  At  the  store  and  the 
post-office  Mehling  overheard  talk  of  sup 
pers  and  dances.  All  was  gay  and  cheer 
ful,  but  it  was  not  for  them.  One  day, 
Mehling  and  the  doctor  met  on  the  road, 
and  the  doctor  said,  abruptly : 

"  Young    man,    are   you   sure   you   are 


122    THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

doing  what  you  can  for  your  wife's  happi 
ness  ?  " 

Mehling  was  painfully  taken  aback.  He 
knew,  though,  that  the  doctor  meant  well 
by  him. 

"  I  gave  up  my  business  in  New  York 
for  no  other  reason  than  to  bring  her  to 
the  country,  that  she  so  longed  for,"  he 
answered,  slowly. 

"  I  did  not  know  it,  sir.  I  honor  you. 
Well,  I  need  not  tell  you,  then,  that  love 
means  a  willingness  to  make  sacrifices. 
And  need  I  say,''  he  added,  with  a  quiz 
zical  smile,  "that  a  woman  always  claims 
— or  at  least  exercises — the  privilege  of 
changing  her  mind  ?" 

Mehling  grew  deadly  pale.  "  That's 
what  I  feared,"  he  said,  huskily.  "  What 
do  you  think  a  man  can  do,  sir  ?  " 

"  Are  you  willing  to  make  another  great 
sacrifice  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  can  give  her  up,  if  it  is  best 
for  her,"  replied  Mehling,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Give  her  up !  What  does  the  man 
mean  ?  "  cried  the  doctor,  testily.  "  What 
do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  her  for  ?  I 
thought  you  wanted  to  make  her  happy!" 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    123 

Mehling  was  bewildered,  but  the  tone 
in  the  doctor's  voice  made  him  clutch 
anew  at  hope. 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean!  Tell  me! 
I  have  loved  her  so  much  that  perhaps  I 
have  been  blind  !  Isn't  it  that  she's  tired 
of  me — would  rather  have — 

"Tired  of  you!  Not  that  I  have  no 
ticed,"  said  the  doctor,  dryly.  "  But  she's 
tired  of  something  else!  Oh,  yes;  I  know 
it  was  the  dearest  wish  of  her  heart,  and 
all  that,  but  women  love  to  change  their 
minds.  She's  lonely,  man  !  "  he  almost 
roared,  for  he  was  eager  to  force  Mehling 
into  belief.  "She's  lonely!  Can't  you 
see  it  ?  She  needs  lots  of  life  !  She  needs 
to  see  people  all  the  time — to  see  things 
going  on !  Don't  I  know  ?  Can't  I  see 
it  ?  Now,  make  your  sacrifice  !  Of  course, 
it  will  be  hard  ;  you  will  lose  money  by 
these  changes  ;  but  she's  worth  losing 
money  for,  young  man.  She's  worth  it ! 
And  what  is  life  for,  if  it  isn't  to  get  the 
greatest  happiness  you  can  with  your 
money  ?  Take  your  wife  back  to  the  city ! 
Let  her  see  the  crowds  and  hear  the  noise 
again  ! " 


124  THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

Mehling  went  home  in  a  glow  of  hope. 
He  entered  the  house,  and  was  appalled 
by  the  pitiful  loneliness  that  looked  at 
him  from  his  wife's  eyes.  He  spoke  to 
her,  for  the  first  time  in  many  weeks,  with 
a  tone  in  which  was  absolute  confidence  as 
well  as  love,  and  then  he  felt  a  poignant 
reproach  for  his  previous  blindness  as  he 
saw  the  light  leap  into  her  eyes.  He  drew 
her  to  him,  and  they  sat  down  together, 
and  he  said,  very  gently : 

"  I  am  thinking  of  making  a  great 
change,  Frederica." 

"A  change  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes.  I  am  going  to  give  up  my  farm 
— give  up  my  life  in  the  country  "  (he 
was  speaking  very  rapidly  now,  for  he 
watched  the  glow  of  happiness  deepening 
in  her  face) ;  "  I  am  going  to  take  you 
back  to  the  city,  where  you  can  live  again 
in  little  rooms,  and  on  a  crowded  street, 
but  where  you  will  be  happy.  Yes,  Fred- 
erica,  you  will  again  live  in  a  tenement !  " 

"  O  Philip  !  And  you  are  going  to 
do  all  this  just  to  please  me — just  to 
please  me  !  "  There  was  a  solemn  wonder 
in  her  voice. 


THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA    125 

"  I  am  going  to  make  my  Frederica 
happy,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  are  going  to  do  it  all  for  me  ! 
And  I — I — oh,  Philip,  I  was  afraid  you 
didn't  care !" 

"  Not  care,  Frederica  ?" 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  And  you  gave  up  your 
store  just  to  make  me  happy,  and  now  you 
will  give  up  your  farm  ?  It  is  too  much, 
Philip  !  I  don't  deserve  it !  I  don't !  " 

She  buried  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
and  laughed  and  cried  in  a  flurry  of  joy. 

"You  deserve  everything  in  the  world, 
Frederica.  And  if  you  get  tired  of  the 
city,  back  we'll  come  to  the  country.  And 
I'm  going  to  try  to  get  the  same  store 
again,  for  it  was  there  we  first  saw  each 
other.  And  I  believe  it  was  never  any 
body  but — 

"  Of  course  it  wasn't !  " 

"  And  you'll  have  it  all  again  !  The 
noise,  and  the  crowds — and— and — we'll 
notice  the  dirt  and  the  smells,  after  this, 
too,  Frederica!  Do  you  remember  the 
dirt  and  the  smells  ?  " 

"  Do  I  ? "  she  exclaimed,  laughing 
through  her  tears.  "Yes.  And  I'm  just 


126   THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  FREDERICA 

going  to  love  everything  !  But — but — will 
you  bring  me  back  here — once  in  a  while 
— for  a  visit,  Philip  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  we'll  visit  all  the  best  fami 
lies,  and  return  their  calls,"  he  said,  so 
gravely  that  she  shrieked  with  laughter. 


THE    MISERY   IN   MIS'    RANDOLPH'S 
KNEE 


THE   MISERY   IN   MIS'    RANDOLPH'S 
KNEE 

A  LARGE  and  very  black  woman,  with 
a  face  creased  into  so  many  valleys 
and  ridges  that  it  looked  like  a  map  in  re 
lief  of  a  round  island  of  very  uneven  surface, 
was  glaring  with  defiance  at  a  man  who  sat 
across  from  her  in  the  Lexington  Avenue 
car  that  I  had  just  taken  at  Thirtieth 
Street.  I  recognized  the  man  at  once  as 
one  of  the  foremost  surgeons  of  the  city, 
and  I  noticed  that  he  was  ill  at  ease  and 
embarrassed  under  the  snappy  glare  and 
the  tilting  tosses  of  anger.  That  the 
woman  was  evidently  respectable  and  not 
intoxicated  was  what  made  it,  doubtless, 
impossible  for  the  man  entirely  to  ignore 
her  manifestations. 

I  recognized  the  woman,  too.     She  was 
"  Mis'    Randolph,"  a   laundress,  whom    I 
had  known  for  over  a  year  as  a  faithful  and 
129 


130  THE   MISERY   IN 

hard-working  woman.  She  was  a  widow, 
her  husband,  a  shiftless  fellow  whom  she 
had  worshipped  and  labored  for,  having 
died  shortly  after  she  began  doing  my 
weekly  work.  She  had  not  mourned  him 
long,  in  spite  of  her  erstwhile  worship,  and 
the  "misery  in  her  knee"  was  all  that  made 
a  black  spot,  so  to  speak,  in  her  existence. 

This  "  misery  "  gave  her  a  pronounced 
limp,  and  at  times,  especially  when  a 
change  of  weather  impended,  caused  her 
acute  suffering. 

"  It's  going  to  be  falling  weathah,  shu',n 
she  would  declare.  "  My  bayrummetah 
says  so,  and  so  it  will  sholy  be." 

Whenever  I  suggested  that  a  doctor 
might  be  of  benefit,  she  shook  her  head 
with  mournful  decision,  saying  that  no  doc 
tors  could  help  her  any  more  than  they 
had,  as  she  had  tried  them  and  knew. 
Once  I  remarked  that  hospital  treatment 
might  cure  her,  but  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
sudden  fright  that  surprised  me  : 

"  No,  suh  !  No,  suh  !  No  doctah,  an' 
no  sawjun's  going  to  saw  Mis'  Randolph's 
knee  !  " 

She  delighted  in  giving  herself  the  full 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S   KNEE  131 

designation  of  "  Mis'  Randolph,"  and  was 
keenly  pleased  when  others  did  the  same, 
instead  of  calling  her  by  her  plain  first 
name. 

"I'm  Virginiah  fine  folks!  Harry  and 
me  ain't  no  common  colo'd  pussons !  Our 
folks  was  all  Randolphs — big  white  folks 
— and  they  owned  houses  as  big  as  the 
city  hall — and  their  land  it  went  for  miles 
and  miles — and  they  had  lots  and  lots  o' 
common  colo'd  pussons  to  work  for  them, 
and  fine  folks  like  me  and  Harry  to  take 
keer  of  the  inside  of  the  house  !  " 

But  Mrs.  Randolph  in  the  street-car  was 
a  different  person  from  Mrs.  Randolph  as  I 
had  ever  before  known  her.  Her  wonted 
good  humor  had  all  vanished,  and  she  was 
the  personification  of  threatening  wrath. 
More  surprising  still,  her  lameness  had  en 
tirely  departed!  At  Twenty-fourth  Street 
she  signalled  to  the  conductor,  with  great 
dignity,  to  stop  the  car,  stood  very  stiffly 
erect  fora  moment,  glaring  down  at  the  sur 
geon,  gave  a  final  tilt  and  toss  of  defiance, 
and  then  stalked  majestically  from  the  car 
without  the  slightest  limp.  She  was  far  too 
occupied  with  the  surgeon  to  recognize  me 


132 


THE   MISERY   IN 


or  to  glance  at  any  of  the  amused  passen 
gers.  At  the  door  she  gave  a  backward 
look,  a  victorious  sniff,  and,  stepping  from 
the  platform,  marched  stiffly  away,  still 


without  a  sign  of  lameness,  and  darting 
Parthian  glances  over  her  shoulder  with 
the  same  look  of  triumph. 

On  the  following  Thursday  she  came  to 
my  rooms,  as  usual,  and    I    noticed   that 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S    KNEE  133 

there  was  a  full  return  of  her  customary 
limp.  In  fact,  she  moaned  and  complained 
about  the  "misery"  even  more  than  usual, 
and  said  that  a  big  storm  must  certainly 
be  at  hand  or  else  she  had  somehow  hurt 
her  knee. 

"  And  you  must  feel  it  the  more  keenly 
through  its  coming  back  after  you  had  just 
gotten  entirely  rid  of  the  lameness,"  I 
said. 

She  looked  at  me  with  inquiring  won 
der.  "  Got  rid  of  it,  suh  !  No.  The  mis 
ery  hain't  left  me,  nohow,  and  won't  never 
leave  me  till  Mis'  Randolph  is  daid." 

"  But  in  the  street-car,  on  last  Sunday, 
I  noticed  that  you  did  not  limp  at  all,"  I 
responded. 

"  Was  you  in  that  kah,  suh  ?  "  she  cried. 
And  then  she  chuckled  gleefully.  "  'Deed, 
my  misery  hain't  left  me,  and  it  was  just 
force  o'  charactah  that  made  me  do  that ! 
It  hurt  me,  and  the  misery  is  hurting  me 
to-day  just  from  what  I  did.  But  I  was 
bound  not  to  let  that  Hessian  see  me  limp! 
Did  you  see  him,  just  sitting  across  from 
me  in  that  kah  ?  I  made  him  feel  discom- 
fortable,  too,  with  looking  at  him  so  scorn- 


134  THE   MISERY   IN 

ful !  I'm  a  Randolph  of  Virginiah  and  it 
comes  natural  to  look  scornful  at  a  Hes 
sian.  And  I  wouldn't  let  him  see  me 
limp  !  No,  suh  !  That  Hessian  !  " 

Whenever  Mrs.  Randolph  wished  to  ex 
press  the  very  extreme  of  contempt  or  dis 
like  toward  anybody,  she  was  wont  to  call 
him  a  "  Hessian."  She  could  give  no  ex 
planation  of  the  word,  except  that  it  had 
been  a  common  term  of  opprobrium  in 
Virginia,  and  that  she  had  learned  it,  when 
a  child,  as  a  natural  and  common  word. 
It  interested  me  as  being,  apparently,  a 
transmitted  survival  of  the  Revolutionary 
hatred  of  the  Hessian  soldiery. 

"  That  Hessian  see  me  limp  !  I  wouldn't 
let  him  nohow !  That  Hessian  he  once 
tried  to  cut  off  Mis'  Randolph's  laig !  " 

"  Indeed !  And  how  did  you  manage  to 
escape  having  it  done  ?  " 

"  I  escaped  just  through  force  o'  char- 
actah,"  she  said,  with  dignity.  "I  just 
walked  to  the  boat,  and  I  hadn't  got  no 
pass,  but  I  just  recommembered  that  I  was 
a  Randolph  of  Virginiah,  and  I  got  away 
from  the  island  all  right.  It  was  just  force 
o'  Randolph  charactah  !  " 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S   KNEE  135 

The  reference  to  the  island  and  the  pass 
told  me  that  there  was  just  one  place  where 
the  adventure  had  occurred.  "  You  never 
told  me,  before,  that  you  were  on  Black- 
well's  Island,"  I  said. 

A  look  of  deepest  chagrin  came  over  her 
face,  and  the  ridges  dolorously  unfolded, 
lengthening  the  customary  round  island 
until  it  seemed  like  a  map  of  Africa. 

"  That's  what  comes  of  talking  free. 
Seems  as  if  when  my  fool  mouth  opens 
the  words  runs  out  just  like  wattah  a-run- 
ning  from  a  faucet.  Yes,  suh.  I  was  on 
the  Island  two  years  ago  ;  but  o'  course  I 
never  told  you,  for  I  was  feared  you  would 
think  Mis'  Randolph  'd  been  and  done 
somefin'.  And  now  my  fool  tongue's  been 
and  told  it.  But  it  wasn't  for  any  wrong, 
nohow !  " 

I  reassured  Mrs.  Randolph  by  saying 
that  I  was  well  aware  that  there  were  not 
less  than  from  six  to  eight  thousand  peo 
ple  on  the  Island,  and  that  they  were 
scattered  among  quite  a  number  of  insti 
tutions,  including  two  large  hospitals,  and 
that,  therefore,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that,  in 
popular  parlance,  the  words  "the  Island  " 


136  THE   MISERY   IN 

were  understood  to  mean  the  Workhouse, 
she  need  not  have  been  afraid  that  I  should 
think  that  Blackwell's  contained  nothing 
but  the  Workhouse  and  the  hospital  wards 
connected  with  that  correctional  institu 
tion. 

"  I  presume  that  you  were  a  patient  at 
either  the  Metropolitan  or  the  City  Hos 
pital,"  I  said. 

"  Yes.  That  was  just  it.  I  was  at  the 
City  Hospital,"  she  replied,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  as  the  creases  drew  back  into  their 
natural  ridges. 

"  The  misery  in  my  knee  was  bad — very 
bad — and  I  had  to  give  up  my  work ;  and 
Harry — he  was  my  husband,  you  know — 
he  was  just  earning  a  little,  and  the  doctah 
he  told  me  to  go  to  the  hospital.  He  say, 
'  Mis'  Randolph,  you  just  go.'  And  I  say, 
'  Huccome  I  go  to  the  hospital,  doctah, 
when  you've  done  took  all  the  money  I 
had  ?  Yes.  All  the  money  I  had  I  has 
paid  to  you.'  And  with  that  he  laughed, 
and  he  laughed,  and  then  he  say,  '  Well, 
then  I  must  get  you  in  the  hospital  with 
out  paying  nothing.'  And  he  laughed 
again,  and  say,  '  Sholy,  Mis'  Randolph,  I 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S    KNEE  137 

must  get  you  in  the  hospital  plumb  free. 
And  I'll  tell  'em  you're  real  lame,  and 
they'll  send  an  amb'lance  for  you.' 

"  And  I  tells  all  the  neighbors  what 
come  in  to  see  me,  including  Mis'  Brown, 
who  was  just  a  common  colo'd  pusson, 
spite  of  her  giving  herself  airs  because  her 
husband  work  as  assistant  to  the  janitor  of 
one  of  them  big,  new  twenty-story  build 
ings  downtown,  and  I  says  to  Mis'  Brown 
and  all  the  other  neighbors  that  I  was 
going  to  have  the  amb'lance  come  to  the 
street  for  me  special,  and  that  the  great 
city  of  New  York  was  a-going  to  try  to 
cure  the  misery  in  this  knee. 

"  And  so,  one  day  there  come  a-ringing 
and  a-clanging  in  the  street — it  was  Thomp 
son  Street  where  I  lived  then,  suh — and 
the  amb'lance  drove  right  up  to  the  door  of 
the  tenement,  and  there  was  a  big  excite 
ment.  Seemed  as  if  the  street  was  all  alive 
with  fine  colo'd  folks,  and  common  colo'd 
pussons  like  Mis'  Brown,  and  at  every 
window  there  was  haids  a-sticking  out. 

"And  I  feels  real  proud.  I  has  Harry 
take  me  down  to  the  amb'lance,  a-leading 
and  a-supporting  me,  and  me  just  a-moan- 


ing  and  a-groaning  about  the  misery  in  my 
knee,  and  all  the  rest  they  so  envious  and 
so  jealous  that  they  almost  ready  to  kill 
me !  Oh,  it  was  a  grand  day  for  Mis' 
Randolph  !  And  I  bows  to  all  I  can  see, 
real  condescending  like,  and  I  says  to  Mis' 
Brown,  with  a  toss  of  my  haid  :  '  You 
didn't  believe  me  when  I  said  I  was 
a-going  to  be  sent  for  special  with  the 
amb'lance  and  drove  away  to  the  hospital, 
but  you  just  see  that  they  thinks  a  good 
deal  of  Mis'  Randolph.  I  ain't  no 
common  no-account  colo'd  pusson,  Mis' 
Brown  !  ' 

"And  she  know  what  I  mean,  and  she 
look  at  me  with  her  face  twisted  as  if  she 
had  green  persimmons  in  her  mouth,  and 
then  she  say,  just  as  thin  and  mean  as  sour 
plum  juice:  'But  you  won't  come  back 
a-driving,  lessen  in  a  daid-wagon.'  And 
then  she  snicker  right  out. 

"  And  I  says,  just  like  a  Virginian  Ran 
dolph  ought  to  talk  to  common  folks: 
'Deed,  Mis'  Brown;  I'll  come  back 
a-riding  just  as  grand  as  I  goes  away.' 

"  But  the  good  Lawd  knows  just  why  I 
said  that  same.  It  come  out  of  my  mouth 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S   KNEE  139 

before  I  stopped  to  think.  Just  like  the 
faucet,  as  I  said  befo'.  But  I  wasn't  going 
to  take  it  back,  for  I  always  speak  real  big 
to  that  jealous  Mis'  Brown,  and  then  I 
was  drove  away  all  grand  and  dignifidy, 
and  everybody  they  laugh  at  Mis'  Brown 
and  everybody  they  think  that  Mis'  Ran 
dolph  is  big  folks  shu. 

"  Oh,  that  was  a  grand  day,  suh — a 
grand  day!  'Tain't  often  the  good  Lawd 
he  gives  even  Virginiah  fine  folks  such  a 
day  as  that !  But  they  was  a  better  day 
a-coming !  Yes;  there  was  a  better  and 
a  grander  day  a-coming  ! 

"  Well,  they  took  me  across  on  a  big 
steamah,  and  to  the  hospital,  and  there 
the  big  doctahs  they  all  come  and  they 
look  and  they  look  at  my  knee  and  they  all 
try  to  cure  the  misery  in  it.  They  wraps 
it,  and  they  puts  poultices  and  liniments  on 
it,  and  they  ties  it  and  they  unties  it,  and 
they  twists  it  round  and  round  like  as  if 
'twas  nothing  but  a  brake  on  a  street-kah. 
Then  they  shakes  their  haids  all  solemn 
like,  and  after  trying  for  a  good  many  days 
they  says,  '  We  must  wait  and  show  this 
to  the  big  sawjun.' 


"  And  I  asks  the  nurse  who  is  the  big 
sawjun  who  is  to  look  at  Mis'  Randolph's 
laig,  and  she  say,  flip  like,  '  He's  the  saw 
jun  that  saws  people's  laigs  clean  off.' 
And  I  say,  '  Fo'  the  Lawd,  I  hopes  that 
sawjun  won't  look  at  Mis'  Randolph's  knee. 
The  misery's  bad,  but  it  would  be  wusser 
to  have  no  knee  to  have  the  misery  in.' 

"  In  a  few  days  I  heahs  one  of  the  doc- 
tahs  say  to  the  nurse  that  the  big  sawjun 
was  a-coming  into  the  ward.  And  in  a 
few  minutes  in  he  come,  all  grand  like, 
and  they  take  him  right  over  to  Mis'  Ran 
dolph's  baid  as  if  there  ain't  nobody  in  the 
hospital  so  important  as  me. 

"  And  he  was  the  same  Hessian  that 
was  in  the  kah,  suh !  The  very  same  big 
Hessian !  And  he  have  me  carried  to  a 
room  where  they  was  bottles  and  things 
all  'round,  and  where  they  lays  me  out  on 
a  big  flat  piece  of  glass,  and  there  he 
twists  and  turns  my  laig,  and  shakes  his 
haid  real  solemn,  like  the  preacher  do 
when  he  prays  for  the  sinner  that  he 
knows  the  Lawd  won't  save.  And  he 
say,  '  The  misery  in  Mis'  Randolph's 
knee  am  very  bad.'  But  he  look  just 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S    KNEE  141 

so  foolish  solemn  as  a  ovvel.  Then  he 
say,  '  Very  curious  case.  Must  look  into 
this  myself.'  Then  he  stand  with  two 
doctahs  at  the  side  of  the  room,  and  the 
three  they  jerk  their  haids  and  nod  just 
like  three  fat  Virginiah  buzzards  a-waiting 
for  somefin  to  die. 

"  Of  course,  I  feels  real  proud  that  the 
misery  in  my  knee  is  so  important  to  the 
big  men,  and  I  didn't  know  the  sawjun 
was  a  Hessian  till  after  I  was  carried  back 
to  my  own  baid.  But  while  I  lies  there,  I 
hears  him  tell  the  nurse,  '  Yes,  at  ten  to 
morrow  morning.'  And  they  both  look 
at  Mis'  Randolph,  and  it  all  come  to  me 
plain  as  if  I  had  heard  every  word. 

"  I  don't  say  anything  right  away,  for 
first  I  waits  and  makes  a  plan,  thinking  it 
all  out  careful.  And  'long  'bout  three 
o'clock  I  speaks  to  the  nurse  as  she  comes 
near  me,  and  I  say,  '  Oh,  this  misery  am 
real  bad ;  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer ! ' 
And  I  groans  and  kicks  up  like.  And  I 
say,  '  Is  it  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  that 
the  big  sawjun  is  a-coming  to  saw  it  off?' 
And  she  say,  'Yes.'  And  then  she  ask, 
quick  like,  '  But  huccome  you  to  know 


142  THE   MISERY    IN 

that?'     But   I  just  groan  and  say,  '  Oh, 
how  this  misery  hurts  me  ! ' 

"  Pretty  soon  she  go  away,  and  I  have 
my  plan  all  fixed.  I  knows  I  can't  afford 
to  have  my  laig  cut  off,  for  then  I  couldn't 
work  for  Harry  no  more  when  they  sends 
me  home.  And  I  didn't  want  it  off  nohow. 
Do  me  a  heap  sight  more  good  on.  Well, 
my  clothes  they  hang  in  a  closet  at  the  end 
of  the  room,  and  when  the  nurse  goes 
away,  before  five,  as  I  knowed  she  did 
every  afternoon,  for  'bout  half  an  hour,  to 
meet  a  clerk  from  the  office,  I  gets  up  and 
goes  to  the  closet  and  gets  the  clothes. 
Some  of  the  other  women  they  look  at  me, 
lazy  like,  and  wondering,  but  they  don't 
say  nothing.  I  goes  quick,  though  the 
misery  hurts  me  real  bad,  and  then  I  goes 
out  into  the  hall,  and  down  the  last  stair 
on  the  side  to'a'ds  where  the  boat  lands. 
Not  the  big  steamah  that  took  me  there 
but  a  little  one  that  goes  straight  across 
the  river  every  hour.  I  had  seen  it  from 
the  window,  and  watched  it,  pretty  nigh 
every  day,  having  little  to  do  there  you 
know,  suh,  and  I  knowed  all  about  it  from 
others  in  the  ward. 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S   KNEE  143 

"  I  didn't  know  just  how  I  could  do  it, 
for  I  knowed  I  ought  to  have  a  pass,  but  I 
just  recommembered  that  I  was  a  Ran 
dolph  of  Virginiah  and  that  I  musn't  dis 
grace  the  family  by  being  beat.  And  I 
also  recommembered  my  laigand  the  Hes 
sian.  So  I  slipped  out  of  the  end  door, 
and  went  down  to  the  boat  real  stately, 
and  there  was  a  line  of  people,  each  with 
a  ticket  in  his  hand,  just  as  if  'twas  the 
theatre. 

"And  all  at  once  I  wanted  to  shout 
Hallelujah,  for  I  saw  the  captain  of  the 
boat,  and  I  knowed  him,  for  I  had  washed 
and  ironed  for  him  and  his  wife  before  the 
misery  made  me  give  up  work.  And  so  I 
held  my  haid  high  and  didn't  look  at  the 
man  that  stood  by  the  plank  the  people 
walked  on.  I  just  looked  over  his  haid, 
and  I  nodded  to  the  captain,  and  I  says, 
'  Howdy,'  and  then  I  steps  over  the  side 
of  the  boat,  to'a'ds  where  the  captain  stood, 
and  I  nod  and  speak  to  him  while  the  man 
say,  'Pass,  your  pass!'  And  I  pretends 
not  to  hear  the  man,  but  speaks  right  up  to 
the  captain,  very  grand,  recommembering  I 
was  a  Randolph,  and  I  says  that  I  would 


144  THE   MISERY   IN 

like  to  have  his  work  again  to  do,  as  I  have 
been  cured  and  sent  away  from  the  hos 
pital.  And  he  say  that  he  is  real  glad  to 
hear  it,  and  the  man  taking  up  passes  sees 
that  the  captain  knows  me  for  shu',  and 
so  kept  on  busy  with  the  folks  that  come 
after  me. 

"  I  was  afraid  to  let  the  captain  see  that 
my  laig  still  hurt,  for  he  might  have  said, 
'  Mis'  Randolph,  you're  not  cured,  and 
must  go  right  back.'  And  T  was  afraid 
that  they  would  come  a-running  and  a- 
chasing  after  me  from  the  hospital.  But 
no  one  come,  and  the  boat  it  took  me  over. 
I  got  a  nickel  from  the  captain  to  ride 
downtown,  and  I  took  the  Second  Avenue 
trolley,  and  I  got  off  at  Bleecker  Street  and 
the  Bowery. 

"  But  the  misery  in  my  knee  was  so 
much  worse,  from  all  I  had  made  the  knee 
do,  that  it  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  walk  a 
step  nohow.  I  leaned  against  a  big  pack 
ing  box  and  wondered  how  I  was  ever 
going  to  get  to  Thompson  Street.  And 
when  the  hurt  got  worse,  and  Irecommem- 
bered  Mis'  Brown,  and  how  aggravating 
she  would  be,  I  almost  asked  a  policeman 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S    KNEE  145 

to  send  me  back  to  the  Island.  But  I 
thought  of  that  Hessian  and  my  laig  and 
I  felt  too  mad. 

"  I  prayed  and  prayed  more  than  I  ever 
did  at  church,  and  then  the  help  it  come  ! 
It  was  after  six  o'clock,  and  there  was  only 
people  a-hurrying  home,  and  along  came 
a  wagon — a  covered  wagon,  shaped  like  a 
hearse,  with  bells  and  looking-glasses 
ringing  and  shining,  and  with  plumes  on 
the  horses  and  on  the  wagon  too.  It  looked 
some  like  a  band-wagon  but  more  like  a 
daid-wagon,  except  for  the  ringing  bells. 
And  the  driver  was  Ben  Johnson,  and  I 
knowed  him,  for  he  was  near  kin. 

"  And  I  stepped  out  into  the  street  and 
I  said,  '  Ben  Johnson,  you  just  stop.'  And 
he  stopped  quick,  right  surprised.  And  I 
said, '  Ben,  you  must  drive  me  home.  The 
misery  in  my  knee's  so  bad  I  can't  walk.' 
And  he  said,  '  I'm  real  sorry,  but  'deed  I 
can't.  I'm  taking  this  wagon  to  the 
stables,  and  they'd  discharge  me.  This 
wagon  belongs  to  a  big  flower-store,  and 
I'm  the  regular  driver,'  he  said,  real  big. 
It's  surprising,  suh,  how  stuck  up  some 
colo'd  pussons  gets  'bout  themselves.  I 


146  THE   MISERY    IN 

always  used  to  say  to  Harry,  '  We  mus'n't 
forget,  Harry,  we  are  Randolphs  of  Vir- 
giniah,  but  we  mus'n't  let  ourselves  ever 
get  stuck  up.' 

"  Well,  I  looks  Ben  Johnson  square  in 
the  eye,  and  I  say,  '  Ben  Johnson,  you  are 
close  kin  of  mine,  for  you  are  second  cousin 
to  my  Aunt  'Liza.  And  you  are  a-courting 
of  Miss  Jen,  and  I  knows  her  well,  and 
I  knows  as  well  as  you  that  she's  got 
money  in  the  bank.  And  if  you  don't 
take  me  I'll  tell  Miss  Jen  just  how  mean 
a  man  Ben  Johnson  is.'  He  looked  at 
me  real  sober,  at  that,  and  so  I  speak  to 
him  again,  very  dignifidy.  '  Ben  Johnson, 
I  know  you  don't  d'lib'r'etly  do  mean 
things,  and  so  you're  going  to  drive  me 
home.  And  if  you  don't  want  me  on  the 
seat  I  can  just  climb  inside.' 

"  At  that  he  laughed  right  out,  and  said 
that  he  couldn't  let  that  be  done  on  the 
open  street.  But  you  may  recommember, 
suh,  that  there's  an  alley  there,  twisting 
back  out  of  sight,  and  so  I  told  him  to 
drive  right  in  there.  And  he  did.  Then 
he  opens  the  back  door  quick,  and  in  I 
crawls,  and  he  jumps  back  again  to  the 


MIS'    RANDOLPH'S    KNEE  147 

seat  and  drives  away,  while  I  hears  some 
low-down  man  a-laughing  fit  to  kill.  And 
the  inside  of  that  wagon  was  as  full  of  the 
smell  of  flowers  as  a  Virginian  hill-side  in 
the  springtime. 

"  Through  a  crack  at  the  front  I  told 
Ben  to  drive  real  slow  on  Thompson 
Street,  for  I  wanted  to  surprise  Mis'  Brown. 
And  I  found  another  little  hole,  where  I 
could  look  through,  and  when  we  drove 
so  slow  down  Thompson  Street  the  people 
they  all  looked  out  of  the  windows  and 
stood  around  the  stoops,  wondering  about 
the  grand  wagon,  and  if  it  was  really  going 
to  stop  somewhere.  And  Ben,  he  sit  and 
drive  just  so  solemn  as  a  undertakah. 

"  And  Mis'  Brown,  I  see  her  come  out, 
and  I  hear  her  say,  '  What's  this,  what's 
this  ? '  as  the  wagon  stop  right  in  front  of 
the  house  where  Harry  and  me  lived,  and 
Mis'  Brown  too.  And  Ben  Johnson  he 
say,  real  mou'nful,  '  It's  Mis'  Randolph, 
and  I've  brung  her  back  again.  Won't 
someone  go  up  and  tell  her  husband  to 
come?' 

"  And  Mis'  Brown  she  grin  real  aggra 
vating,  showing  all  her  teef,  and  she  cry 


148 


THE   MISERY    IN 


out  to  Mis'  Minetty,  'I  told  Mis'  Ran 
dolph  she  could  only  come  back  a-riding 
in  the  daid-wagon,  and  in  the  daid-wagon 
she  have  come  ! ' 

"And  that  made  me  mad,  and  from  the 


inside  of  the  wagon  I  called  back  to  her, 
'  Just  wait  a  minute  and  I'll  come  out,  and 
show  Mis'  Brown  who's  daid  ! '  And  my 
voice  must  have  sounded  dreadful  hollow, 
for  Mis'  Brown  she  just  screech  and  screech, 
and  before  she  could  run  away  the  door  of 


MIS'   RANDOLPH'S    KNEE  149 

that  wagon  swung  open  with  me  a-pressing 
on  it,  and  out  my  feet  went  and  hung  there 
a-wiggling,  and  Mis'  Brown  she  just  let  out 
another  screech  and  then  flopped  down  in 
her-steriks. 

"  Oh,  it  was  a  grand  day,  suh !  A  grand, 
grand  day !  Never  was  such  a  triumph 
happen  on  Thompson  Street  !  And  all  the 
people  they  thought  Mis'  Randolph  the 
triumphantest  pusson  in  the  whole  big 
city.  It  was  sholy  a  grand  day  ! 

"  And  the  misery  in  my  knee  wa'n't 
never  so  bad  after  that  neither.  Seems 
like  as  if  the  doctahs  on  the  Island  must 
have  helped  it  pretty  consid'ble  after  all, 
with  their  twistings  and  linimentings.  It's 
still  a  bayrummetah  for  the  weathah,  and 
it  often  discomfortably  hurts,  but  'tain't 
nigh  so  bad  as  'twas. 

"  But,  oh !  the  glory  of  the  ride  in  the 
amb'lance  !  And,  oh  !  the  bigger  triumph 
of  the  return  that  gave  Mis'  Brown  her- 
steriks  !  And  do  you  think  Mis'  Randolph 
would  have  let  that  Hessian  see  her  limp, 
aftah  he  wanted  to  saw  her  laig  clean  off ! 
That  Hessian ! " 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

MAGGIE  THORLEY  was  as  cheerful 
a  young  woman  as  any  of  the  thou 
sands  who,  like  her,  lived  in  the  packed 
district  of  the  lower  East  Side.  Her  par 
ents  had  died  when  she  was  but  seven 
teen  years  old,  leaving  her  the  care  of  her 
sister  Annie,  two  years  younger.  By  hard 
work  she  had  succeeded,  with  the  aid  of 
$60  in  savings,  left  by  her  father,  in  bring 
ing  herself  and  Annie  safely  to  woman 
hood. 

The  girls  had  been  given  some  school 
ing,  both  were  good-looking  and  attractive, 
and  Maggie  was  fortunate  enough  to  get  a 
responsible  position  in  a  Grand  Street  store, 
and  after  a  while  to  secure  for  Annie  a 
clerkship  on  Fourteenth  Street.  They  thus 
escaped  the  fate  of  many  of  the  girls  of 
their  acquaintance,  who  were  compelled, 
for  a  pittance,  to  work  from  sunrise  until 


154         BEFORE    THE   ARCHBISHOP 

long  after  sunset  for  the  sweat-shops  of 
the  neighborhood. 

For  a  long  time,  indeed,  Maggie  chose 
to  do  sewing  at  night,  in  her  room,  and 
also  on  holidays,  to  earn  a  little  extra 
money  for  frocks  and  ribbons  for  Annie 
and  herself,  but  when  her  own  wages  were 
raised  and  Annie  was  fairly  established  in 
her  clerkship  she  thought  it  unnecessary 
to  continue  the  sewing.  With  the  $3.25 
a  week  that  she  was  paid,  and  the  $2.75  of 
Annie's,  the  two  sisters,  by  dint  of  economy, 
were  able  to  live  in  a  comfortable  way,  in 
their  two-room  home,  on  the  third  floor, 
rear,  of  the  seven-story  tenement-house  to 
which  they  had  moved  as  their  fortunes 
brightened. 

The  larger  room  served  as  kitchen,  din 
ing-room,  sitting-room,  and  parlor,  and  it 
looked  upon  a  stone-paved  court,  on  the 
farther  side  of  which  towered  another  huge 
tenement,  also  teeming  from  basement  to 
roof  with  crowded  human  life.  In  this 
room  were  three  wooden  chairs,  a  stove, 
and  a  table,  while  on  the  walls  were  pinned 
colored  pictures  which  were  deemed  none 
the  worse  for  garishly  advertising  the  mer- 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP         155 

its  of  various  soaps  and  teas.  Everything, 
though  cheap  and  simple,  was  immacu 
lately  neat.  From  this  opened  the  other 
room — if  room  it  could  be  called — which 
was  only  a  dark  closet,  with  barely  enough 
of  space  to  hold  the  bed.  It  was  without 
light,  and  even  without  ventilation,  except 
for  a  square  hole  opening  into  a  narrow 
air-shaft. 

''  It's  a  good  deal  to  pay  $7.50  a  month 
for  rent,"  said  Maggie  to  her  friend,  Kittie 
Kinsella,  "but  there's  $12  put  away  in  the 
Bowery  Bank,  in  Annie's  name,  and  I  can 
do  extra  sewing  again,  at  any  time,  if  we 
need  it.  And  together  we  earn  $6  a  week, 
so  we  can  afford  to  have  a  nice  place  to 
live.  And  I  must  think  of  Annie's  chances, 
for  I  want  her  to  be  sure  and  get  a  good 
beau — like  yours,  you  know — 

She  smiled,  and  tucked  Kittie's  arm 
closer  within  her  own.  Kittie,  whose  fa 
ther  was  a  fireman,  earning  $2.50  a  day, 
was  being  courted  by  a  motorman  on  the 
Third  Avenue  line,  and  she  blushed  and 
giggled. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Maggie,  "  I  feel  that 
we  ought  to  live  in  style,  or  the  young  fel- 


156        BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

lows  won't  be  near  so  likely  to  come  court 
ing.  And  I've  got  to  be  a  mother  to  An 
nie,  and  think  of  her  chances  of  getting  a 
good  husband.  It's  only  on  the  third  floor 
that  we  live,  you  know,  and  it's  real  tony, 
instead  of  having  to  climb  so  many  stairs, 
and  I  just  thought  the  fellows  maybe 
wouldn't  want  to  climb  any  higher.  Of 
course,  if  they  got  to  know  Annie  real  well 
they  would,  but  I  mean  at  the  first,  you 
know,  and  it's  so  much  in  making  a  good 
hit  at  the  start.  And  we  live  in  as  fash 
ionable  a  house  as  any  on  the  street !  "  she 
added,  with  pride. 

"  And  how  old  is  Annie  getting  to  be  ?  " 
asked  Kittie. 

"  She's  just  eighteen,  and  that's  two 
years  younger  than  I  am.  It  was  my  birth 
day  last  Friday." 

"And  how  about  yourself?"  said  Kittie, 
with  a  sly  pressure  of  the  arm  interlocked 
with  her  own.  "  It's  wise  men  they'd  be 
if  they  came  for  that." 

"  Oh,  it's  sister  Annie  I  must  think  about 
first.  She's  such  a  dear,  good  girl  that  it's 
what  I'd  want  to  do  even  if  father  and 
mother  hadn't  told  me  special  to  look  after 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP         157 
her.     There'll    be  time  enough   to   think 

o 

about  myself  later." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said 
her  friend,  cautiously.  "  It's  all  right  to 
think  about  Annie,  but  a  girl  must  think 
about  herself  too,  or  chances'll  slip.  Well, 
this  is  my  stairway  ;  good-night,  dear." 

Although  Kittie  had  riot  noticed  it, 
Maggie  had  herself  blushed  a  little  when 
her  own  chances  had  been  mentioned. 
Maggie  had,  in  truth,  worked  and  planned 
and  sacrificed  unselfishly,  since  the  death 
of  her  parents,  for  the  sake  of  her  sister, 
but  of  late  thoughts  of  love  had  come  into 
her  own  heart.  Dan  Barrett,  a  young  car 
penter,  who  lived  on  the  fourth  floor  of  the 
same  big  tenement -house,  had  already 
looked  in  on  the  girls  several  times,  and  it 
was  plain  that  he  found  pleasure  in  doing 
so.  He  had  quickly  become  acquainted 
with  them  through  the  fact  that  his  mother, 
since  the  day  of  the  sisters'  entrance  into 
the  tenement,  had  taken  a  bustling  interest 
in  them.  She  liked  them  very  much,  and 
the  liking  increased  as  she  came  to  know 
them  better.  She  had  for  quite  a  while 
past  been  hoping  for  the  appearance  of  a 


158        BEFORE  THE   ARCHBISHOP 

girl  who  would  make  the  right  wife  for  her 
son,  whom  she  wished  safely  married,  and 
she  thought  that  with  the  coming  of  the 
Thorley  sisters  she  had  made  the  desired 
discovery. 

"  They're  the  right  kind,  Dan,"  she  said. 
"  Both  of  them's  good,  and  though  the 
younger  one  has  got  softer  hands  than  the 
other,  and  though  her  eyes  are  brighter 
and  there  ain't  no  crow's-feet  begun  to 
show,  yet  I  misdoubt  it's  Maggie  as  has 
worked  the  hardest,  and  stayed  up  nights 
the  latest,  and  worried  the  most,  and  that's 
why  she's  not  quite  so  pretty.  But  she's 
pretty  yet,  Dan.  And  a  girl  that  gets  her 
hands  hard  with  honest  work,  and  gets  her 
eyes  tired  sewing  while  her  sister  sleeps,  is 
the  right  kind  for  a  man  to  tie  up  to.  Not 
but  what  Annie  seems  a  nice  girl,  too, 
though." 

Dan's  own  judgment  followed  that  of 
his  mother  in  so  far  as  thinking  both  of 
the  sisters  very  nice,  and  he  took  real 
pleasure  in  sitting  and  chatting  with  them. 
Once  he  took  them  to  an  ice-cream  room 
on  Third  Avenue,  twice  he  walked  with 
them  to  the  Battery,  and  sat  with  them  on 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 


'59 


a  bench  to  hear  the  band  play,  while  the 
water  surged  against  the  stone  retaining 
wall,  and  boats  glided  by  in  ghostly  pro 
cession,  and  once  he  took  them  for  an  even 


ing's  ride   on    an    excursion-steamer,   and 
their  joy  had  been  complete. 

"  Which  sister  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  tene 
ment-dwellers,  among  themselves.  Maggie, 
for  her  part,  felt  a  shy  belief  that  it  was 
she,  for  she  knew  that  Dan  had  been  the 


160        BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

more  attentive  to  her,  and  had  been 
prompt  in  little  courtesies.  And  then, 
too,  had  he  not  told  her  how  much  he 
admired  her  singing!  It  never  occurred 
to  her  that  the  wearied  eyes  and  incipient 
wrinkles  that  had  come  through  her  unself 
ish  care  for  her  sister  could  militate  against 
her,  and,  indeed,  the  eyes  were  daily 
brightening  and  the  signs  of  wrinkles  were 
beginning  to  vanish.  It  never  occurred  to 
her  that  Dan's  attentions  were  possibly 
owing  to  the  fact  that  she  was  Annie's 
older  sister  and  therefore  her  guardian, 
whom  it  might  be  well  to  propitiate,  and 
that  it  was  possible  that  they  were  made 
as  a  means  of  tactically  concealing  his  real 
feelings  until  he  should  fully  make  up  his 
own  mind. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  July  day,  and 
Maggie  was  singing  happily  to  herself  as 
she  thought  of  how  handsome  Dan  had 
looked,  and  with  what  happy  cordiality  he 
had  spoken,  as  she  passed  him,  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  an  hour  before.  She  was 
cleaning,  with  gasoline,  a  pair  of  her  sis 
ter's  gloves,  and  when  Annie,  after  what 
seemed  a  long  absence,  considering  that 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP         161 

she  had  only  gone  to  a  near-by  grocer's  for 
sugar,  finally  came  back,  her  singing  did 
not  cease.  Daylight  had  almost  vanished, 
but  Maggie,  sitting  by  the  window,  had 
not  noticed  the  gradual  change.  She  did 
not  notice  that  Annie  seemed  elated,  for 
she  herself  was  dreamily  thinking  of  happi 
ness  and  Dan.  Annie  wanted  to  speak, 
but  with  a  happy  smile  and  a  blush  that 
was  unseen  in  the  darkness,  checked  her 
self.  Then  she  said,  but  a  little  stiffly,  on 
account  of  her  effort  to  make  her  voice 
sound  quite  natural  : 

"  I'm  going  to  go  out  in  a  little  while — 
with  Dan.  He's  going  to  call  for  me,  to 
take  me  over  to  the  Atlantic  Garden.  It'll 
be  all  right,  won't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear."  The  voice  was  very  calm. 
No  one  could  suspect  that  there  had  come 
a  sudden  wrench  on  Maggie's  heart-strings. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  This  was  the  first 
time  that  Dan  had  asked  one  of  the  sisters 
to  go  out  with  him  without  asking  the 
other  also.  Maggie  sat  very  still,  and  let 
Annie's  gloves  lie  in  the  basin  in  her  lap. 
Annie  busied  herself  nervously  about  the 
room. 


162         BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

"  And — and — he  was  talking  with  me 
down  at  the  door — and — I  think  maybe 
he's  got  something  special  to  ask  me." 

"Why,  Annie,  is  that  so?  How  nice, 
dear!" 

But  Annie's  quick  ear  detected  a  false 
note  in  the  words.  "  I  do  believe  you're 
not  glad  to  hear  it !  You  don't  think  I'd 
ever  consent  to  leave  you  all  alone,  do 
you,  whatever  Dan  wanted  ?  You're  the 
dearest  and  best  sister  that  a  girl  ever  had  ! 
And  now  let  me  look  at  you,  you  dear, 
dear  Maggie  !  " 

She  pirouetted  gayly,  and,  striking  a 
match,  held  it  toward  Maggie's  face,  and 
in  that  moment  there  came  a  fierce  upflar- 
ing  of  the  gasoline.  With  a  cry  of  pain, 
and  with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  eyes, 
Maggie  sprang  from  her  chair,  and  neigh 
bors  came  running  to  the  room  as  the  sis 
ters  uttered  scream  on  scream.  Some  ran 
to  turn  in  an  alarm,  while  others  remained 
and  fought  out  the  fire  that  had  quickly 
begun  to  blaze  on  the  floor  and  up  the 
window. 

Dan  himself,  the  first  to  arrive,  cared  for 
poor  Maggie,  extinguished  the  fire  in  her 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP         163 

clothing,  and  then  dashed  downstairs  for 
a  doctor.  Meeting  a  policeman  who  came 
running  up,  he  panted  :  "  Fire's  out !  Send 
an  ambulance  call,  quick  !  Woman's  badly 
burned  !  " 

But  the  policeman  first  continued  on  his 
way  upstairs,  and  the  more  leisurely  for 
having  been  told  that  the  fire  was  out. 
Not  till  he  had  taken  a  look  at  Maggie's 
face,  and  heard  her  moans  of  anguish,  did  he 
retrace  his  steps  and  send  in  an  ambulance 
call.  No  one  had  done  it  before  him,  for  all 
knew  that  the  hospital  would  not  respond 
to  the  call,  unless  made  by  a  policeman. 

The  girl  was  taken  to  Gouverneur  Hos 
pital,  where  nothing  could  be  done  for  her 
except  to  alleviate  the  dreadful  pain.  The 
next  day  she  was  transferred  to  Bellevue, 
where  the  resident  hospital  staff  and  the 
grave  visiting  surgeons  looked  at  her  and 
said  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  see 
again.  It  was  not  for  some  weeks  that 
this  decision  was  finally  reached,  and  mean 
while  Maggie  was  in  a  state  of  frantic  sus 
pense,  not  alone  from  the  dread  of  blind 
ness,  but  also  from  fear  as  to  what  would 
become  of  her  sister. 


164        BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

Annie  called  at  the  hospital  but  seldom. 
It  interfered  with  her  work,  which  had 
necessarily  become  of  more  vital  impor 
tance  than  before,  and  besides,  the  condi 
tion  of  Maggie  was  for  some  time  so  criti 
cal  as  to  make  the  doctors  forbid  any  but 
rare  visits  from  anyone.  Rent  day  came, 
and  it  took  all  the  ready  money  to  pay  it. 
Then,  to  purchase  some  delicacies  for  the 
sufferer,  Annie  drew  a  little  money  from 
the  bank,  and  Maggie's  anxiety  was  in 
creased. 

"  Don't  buy  me  anything  else,"  she  in 
sisted.  "  You  must  take  care  of  every 
cent.  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  for 
a  home — if — if  I  never — 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Maggie.  Of  course 
you'll  be  with  me  again  after  a  while." 

"  But  for  the  present,  then  ?  Will  one 
of  the  girls  go  in  with  you  ?  I  don't  want 
you  to  live  alone.  And  will  you  have  to 
go  to  a  cheaper  place  ?  Are  you  making 
any  arrangements  ?" 

"  No,  I  haven't  made  any  arrangements 
yet,  but  I've  been  talking  it  over  with — 
with  Mrs.  Barrett,  and  I'll  do  something 
pretty  soon." 


BEFORE   THE  ARCHBISHOP         165 

One  Sunday,  three  weeks  after  the  ac 
cident,  Annie  tiptoed  softly  to  her  sister's 
cot.  "  Somebody's  come  with  me,"  she 
whispered.  "  It's  Dan.  And  he  wants 
me  to  tell  you  that  we're  going  to  be  mar 
ried  on  Thursday  of  next  week." 

Maggie  sighed  chokingly,  and  tears 
streamed  from  her  sightless  eyes  as  she 
groped  tremulously  for  the  hands  of  each. 
"  I'm  so  glad  ;  I  sha'n't  need  to  worry  about 
you  now,  dear.  Dan'll  be  good  to  you,  I 
know.  And  you're  getting  a  good  wife, 
Dan,  if  it  is  her  sister  that  says  it,  God 
bless  you,  both  of  you  ! "  They  did  not 
stay  long,  and  went  away  very  quietly, 
without  talking  with  Maggie  of  their  plans 
for  the  future.  The  blind  girl  wept  for 
hours. 

After  a  while  she  was  removed  to  the 
Metropolitan  Hospital,  on  Blackwell's 
Island,  and  in  a  few  more  weeks,  as  she 
had  neither  money  nor  influence  to  secure 
admittance  to  a  blind  asylum,  she  was 
transferred  to  the  Almshouse,  and  became 
an  inmate  of  the  women's  blind  ward. 
There,  the  sluggish,  grinding  monotony 
of  her  daily  life,  in  the  company  of  the 


166        BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

score  of  other  pauper  women  who  shared 
the  ward  with  her,  soon  brought  on  a  dark 
despondency. 

Against  the  immitigable  fate  that  had 
come  upon  her  she  cried  out  from  the 
depths  of  a  poignant  bitterness.  The  vis 
its  of  her  sister  became  much  rarer  than 
before,  although  there  was  no  longer  the 
mandate  of  a  doctor  to  keep  her  away. 
"  I'm  so  busy — just  starting  housekeeping 
— so  many  things  to  see  to,"  was  the  ex 
cuse  at  first,  but  before  long  there  came  to 
be  no  excuse  at  all.  Neither  did  Annie, 
except  on  rare  occasions,  carry  with  her 
any  little  delicacy  to  lighten  the  monotony 
of  Almshouse  fare.  "  You  know,  you  told 
me  not  to,  and  Dan  and  me  have  got  to 
be  economical  or  we  can't  save."  Visits 
made  Annie  feel  so  gloomy  that  the  mere 
thought  of  the  Island  was  depressing,  and 
she  would  seize  upon  the  slightest  obstacle 
as  a  reason  for  not  going  there.  Dan  made 
no  pretence  whatever  of  caring  to  visit 
Maggie. 

That  it  was  eight  full  steps  and  a  short 
one  from  her  cot  to  the  table ;  that  it  was 
fourteen  steps  from  the  cot  to  the  door ; 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP         167 

that  beyond  the  door  she  dare  not  go 
without  a  guide  or  till  repeated  and  care 
ful  experiments  should  make  the  venture 
safe,  were  the  first  prime  facts  that  Maggie 
had  to  learn.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down 
the  ward  she  would  slowly  pace,  feeling 
her  way  with  the  beat  of  her  stick  upon 
the  floor;  a  grewsome  tapping  that  was 
echoed  and  re-echoed  by  the  sticks  of  the 
other  blind  women,  her  companions. 

The  snarling  eagerness  with  which  the 
sluttery  women  answered  the  curt  call  to 
meals,  their  greedy  ravening  when  the 
coarse  food  was  within  their  reach,  the 
gross  sounds,  the  rough,  gnarling  curses 
from  both  spiller  and  spilled-upon  when 
soup  was  overturned,  immeasurably  sick 
ened  her.  The  quarrelling,  the  cries  of 
hopelessness,  and  the  fits  of  weeping  al 
most  maddened  her,  and  then  would  come 
long  silences,  pregnant  with  misery,  and 
strident  laughter,  more  awful  than  the 
curses  or  the  weeping.  Some  had  learned 
to  accept  their  fate  with  seared  stoicism. 
Others  were  glad  that  another  and  still 
more  miserable  one,  because  younger,  had 
been  added  to  their  number.  Some  there 


168        BEFORE   THE  ARCHBISHOP 

were  who  bore  their  doom  with  resignation, 
who  went  about  with  sad  quietude,  and 
who  strove  to  soften  Maggie's  misery 
with  comforting  words ;  but  for  her  there 
was  no  comfort. 

Some  of  the  women  sewed  or  knitted, 
but  most  did  nothing  but  lie  upon  their 
narrow  cots,  or  sit  on  their  little  round 
stools,  or  go  tappingly  to  the  door,  to 
stand,  or  sit  on  a  bench,  in  the  sunshine, 
and  to  smoke  or  rub  snuff,  if  some  friend 
had  sent  them  a  few  pennies,  while  they 
exchanged  vacuous  gossip  with  each  other, 
and  their  coarse-hooded  heads  nodded  cun 
ningly.  Maggie,  although  she  had  been 
a  fine  seamstress,  had  no  heart  to  learn 
blind-work,  although  Annie  had  left  her 
a  ball  of  yarn  and  a  couple  of  knitting 
needles.  "  It'll  help  to  keep  your  mind 
occupied,  now  that  you're  alone  so  much," 
she  had  murmured. 

One  day  Maggie,  sitting  idly  on  her  low 
stool,  broke  into  a  song,  a  ballad  that  she 
had  frequently  sung  in  those  days  that 
now  seemed  so  long,  long  ago.  It  was 
"Sweet  Rosie  O'Grady,"  and,  as  she  sang, 
the  girl  remembered  that  it  had  been  a 


BEFORE   THE  ARCHBISHOP         169 

favorite  of  Dan's,  and  that  he  had  praised 
her  singing  of  it.  There  were  tears  in  her 
voice,  and  the  happy  words  were  given 
with  a  quivering  sadness  that  touched 
strange  chords  in  the  hearts  of  the  women, 
while  the  blind  men,  at  the  door  of  their 
ward,  next  door,  paused  from  their  eternal 
prosing  about  nothings,  and  listened  in 
solemn  quiet.  And  there  was  another  lis 
tener.  The  priest,  the  kindly  Jesuit  who 
ministered  to  the  souls  of  the  inmates  of 
the  institutions  on  the  northern  end  of  the 
Island,  caught  the  sounds  as  he  was  passing 
by,  and  stood  and  listened  attentively. 

"  For  I  love  Rosie  O'Grady, 
And  Rosie  O'Grady  loves  me," 

came  the  words,  thrilling  with  dirge-like 
sadness,  and  then  there  was  quiet.  The 
blind  girl  did  not  sing  again,  and  in  the 
hush  of  waiting  expectancy  the  priest 
entered  the  ward.  He  knew,  without  ask 
ing,  which  was  the  singer,  for  toward  her 
every  sightless  face  was  bent. 

"  My  daughter,  I  heard  you  singing  as  I 
passed.  Would  you  not  like  to  be  one  of 
the  chapel  choir  ?  " 


170        BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

"  But,  father,  can  I  sing  well  enough  for 
that  ?"  was  her  incredulous  response,  while 
a  thrill  of  joy  shot  through  her  at  the  pros 
pect  of  a  brightening  of  her  life. 

"Yes,  for  you  have  a  good  voice.  The 
woman  who  took  the  soprano  part  died  a 
month  ago,  and  I  need  someone  to  take 
her  place.  I  know  you  will  need  teaching, 
of  course,  and  I  shall  teach  you." 

Maggie  threw  herself  with  hungry  eager 
ness  into  the  task  of  learning  to  sing  the 
solemn  Catholic  chants.  Her  quick  mem 
ory  served  her  well  in  learning  the  words 
of  the  grand  old  hymns,  and  the  grave 
beauty  of  the  music  spoke  directly  to  her 
heart. 

The  day  on  which  she  sang  for  the  first 
time  in  the  choir  was  one  of  tense  excite 
ment  to  her.  An  old  man,  who  had  known 
how  to  play  the  melodeon  in  his  youth, 
and  who  through  a  spinal  injury  received 
in  a  railroad  accident  had  been  forced  to 
go  to  the  Almshouse  to  end  his  days,  was 
the  organist.  The  alto  part  was  taken  by 
a  young  woman  who,  twisted  with  rheu 
matism  and  able  to  walk  only  with  the  aid 
of  a  pair  of  crutches,  was  at  the  same  time 


BEFORE   THE  ARCHBISHOP         171 

the  victim  of  an  asthma  that  at  times 
forced  a  cruelly  incongruous  wheeze  into 
an  otherwise  fairly  good  voice.  The  tenor 
was  a  blind  man  who  had  sung  on  street 
corners  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  dron 
ing  little  organ.  The  basso  had  but  one 
eye,  while  his  voice,  owing  to  an  affection 
of  the  throat,  was  alternately  of  a  tremen 
dous  volume  and  of  a  thin  squeakiness. 

On  the  day  that  Maggie  Thorley  first 
sang  there  were  a  few  among  the  large 
congregation  who  noticed  that  there  was 
a  new  singer,  and  they  nodded  and  nudged 
each  other,  but  most  of  the  people  stolidly 
took  the  change  without  any  knowledge 
that  it  had  occurred.  The  priest  spoke  to 
the  choir  as  the  congregation  slowly  stum 
bled  and  shuffled  from  the  chapel. 

"  The  service  of  Confirmation  will  be 
held  in  a  month,  and  it  will  be  the  first 
time  in  several  years.  The  Archbishop  of 
New  York  will  conduct  the  service,  my 
children,  and  I  know  that  you  will  do  your 
best.  I  shall  give  you  all  the  practice  I 
can  between  now  and  the  day  of  the 
service." 

He  spoke  to  Maggie  Thorley  after  the 


172        BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

others  had  gone.  "  You  sang  very  finely. 
You  did  very  well  indeed.  I  am  glad  that 
you  are  one  of  the  choir,  and  1  am  sure 
that  the  Archbishop  will  be  much  better 
impressed."  The  flash  of  joy  on  her 
young  face  moved  him.  "  Poor  things ! 
How  a  little  well-earned  praise  lightens 
their  lot  ! "  he  murmured  to  himself,  and 
then  said  :  "  I  did  not  say  this  before  the 
others,  for  they,  too,  have  done  their  best, 
and  I  would  not  hurt  their  feelings,  but  I 
may  say  to  you  that  you  are  the  finest 
singer  that  the  choir,  within  my  experience, 
has  had." 

That  night,  as  Maggie,  lying  sleeplessly 
on  her  cot,  went  over  and  over  the  words 
that  the  priest  had  said,  an  idea,  full  of 
trembling  hope,  suddenly  flashed  upon  her. 
"  The  Archbishop  will  be  impressed  !  The 
Archbishop  will  be  impressed  !  Did  not  the 
priest  say  so  ?  "  At  first  she  harbored  the 
new  ambition  with  timorous  doubt,  but  af 
ter  a  while  it  remained  insistently  with  her. 

"  The  Archbishop  is  coming,  and  will 
hear  the  music.  The  priest  tells  me  I  sing 
well,  and  Dan  always  told  me  I  had  a  fine 
voice.  Why  can  I  not  sing  so  well  before 


BEFORE   THE  ARCHBISHOP         173 

the  Archbishop  that  he  will  notice  me  and 
be  pleased  ?  Then,  through  the  good  priest, 
will  not  the  Archbishop  let  me  get  a  place 
to  sing  in  a  New  York  church  ?  Then  I 
should  be  near  Annie  again.  Maybe,  as  I 
would  of  course  be  earning  some  money, 
Dan  and  she  would  let  me  live  with  them. 
And  I  should  never,  never  have  to  think 
of  this  Island  again  !  " 

During  the  next  month  she  devoted  her 
self  to  the  practice  of  music  with  an  inten 
sity  that  amazed  and  puzzled  the  priest. 
She  did  not  make  a  confidant  of  him,  for 
while  she  did  not  fear  that  he  would  ridi 
cule  her  ambition,  she  dreaded  that  at  least 
he  might  try  to  check  it,  and  that  he  would 
speak  of  the  uselessness  of  making  such  an 
attempt  as  she  had  determined  upon.  It 
would  be  time  enough  to  tell  him  of  her 
hopes  after  the  Archbishop  should  have 
heard  her.  She  felt  sure  that,  at  the  fate 
ful  service,  she  would  far  outdo  her  previ 
ous  efforts.  Was  she  not  improving  every 
day? 

She  sang  while  seated  beside  her  cot. 
She  sometimes  sang  on  the  bench  beside 
the  door.  Often,  she  awoke  in  the  night 


174         BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

and  softly  hummed  the  tunes.  Once  in  a 
while  she  was  cursed  for  making  a  noise. 
At  other  times  she  was  laughed  at.  But 
her  voice  was  so  pathetically  sweet  that  a 
check  rarely  came  to  her.  And  as  day  af 
ter  day  passed  by,  the  hope  that  she  would 
succeed  before  the  Archbishop  became 
more  and  more  of  a  certainty. 

The  fateful  day  arrived.  She  was  her 
self  to  be  one  of  those  to  receive  Confirma 
tion,  as  her  parents  had  neglected  to  have 
the  rite  performed  when  she  was  young. 
Like  the  numerous  other  Almshouse 
women  who  were  to  be  of  the  Confirma 
tion  class,  she  was  given  a  white  veil  and  a 
kerchief  of  white  to  wear  over  her  coarse 
gown  of  blue  serge. 

The  bell  in  the  little  green-slatted  cu 
pola,  on  the  top  of  the  weather-beaten 
building,  rang  forth  its  summons  to  the 
worshippers,  but  long  before  this  the  chapel 
was  almost  full,  so  early  had  the  institu 
tion  inmates  began  to  gather.  The  blind 
had  been  led.  The  infirm  had  been  carried 
on  stretchers  or  in  chairs.  Many  had  hob 
bled  and  crept,  with  frequent  rests.  Many 
had  been  helped  by  their  less  disabled 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP         175 

companions.  Ambulances  and  hospital 
wagons  had  borne  some.  The  people  were 
not  altogether  from  the  various  buildings 
that  collectively  make  up  the  Almshouse, 
for  a  number  came  from  the  Metropolitan 
Hospital,  and  some  Workhouse  prisoners 
swung  down,  in  marching  lines,  in  the  care 
of  keepers. 

The  tin  vessels,  just  inside  the  en 
trances,  for  the  holy  water,  were  soon 
dipped  empty,  for  the  Almshouse  dwellers 
like  a  generous  quantity  of  whatever  prom 
ises  to  do  them  good,  and  the  lame  man 
whose  duty  it  was  to  keep  the  vessels  filled 
had  forgotten  about  them  while  he  was 
open-mouthedly  intent  on  watching  for 
the  coming  of  the  Archbishop.  It  was  pit 
iful  to  see  the  poor  creatures  groping  in 
the  dry  vessels  for  the  water  that  they  could 
not  find. 

The  organist,  thrilling  with  pride  that 
he  with  difficulty  repressed,  had  thoughts 
only  for  the  time  that  he  could  sound  the 
first  notes,  and  he  was  oblivious  to  the 
four  singers,  who,  he  was  firmly  convinced, 
had  very  little  to  do  with  the  real  music, 
after  all.  But  the  one-eyed  basso  not  only 


176        BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

watched  closely  the  entire  scene  of  the 
Archbishop's  entrance,  but  whisperingly 
kept  the  blind  tenor  and  soprano  informed 
of  all  that  was  passing. 

Glorious  and  brilliant,  in  cope  and  sur 
plice  and  stole  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  with  a 
golden  mitre  upon  his  head,  and  in  his  hand 
a  golden  crozier,  the  Archbishop  stood  be 
fore  those  miserable  twelve  hundred  peo 
ple,  who  packed  the  chapel  to  the  very 
doors,  and  in  the  silence  that  fell  upon  the 
assembly  he  could  hear  the  piteous  appeals 
of  still  others,  outside,  who  were  begging 
to  be  allowed  to  go  in. 

The  organ  pealed ;  the  choir  sang ;  the 
coarse-clad  men  and  women  bowed  their 
heads.  On  the  women's  side  there  were 
rows  on  rows  of  hoods  of  brownish-gray, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  the  white  veils  of 
those  who  were  to  be  confirmed.  On  the 
side  of  the  men  a  similar  effect  was  pro 
duced  by  the  many  heads  of  white  among 
the  grizzled  and  brown  and  black. 

The  choir  sang,  and  never  was  singing 
more  sad.  The  organist,  in  the  overplus 
of  his  enthusiasm,  made  the  old  organ  blare, 
from  time  to  time,  with  laborious  respira- 


BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP         177 

tions.  The  tenor,  eager  and  excited,  piped 
high-pitchedly  out  of  tune.  The  alto 
could  not  keep  the  wheezes  from  some 
times  creeping  in.  The  basso  droned  val 
iantly,  but  could  not  always  hold  his 
breaking  voice  in  check.  With  blind  face 
upraised,  Maggie  Thorley  sang,  and  as  she 
sang  she  thought  of  freedom  and  escape, 
and  of  the  other  life  that  this  singing  was 
to  bring  to  her.  Mercifully,  she  was  too 
ignorant  of  really  fine  music,  and  too  much 
wrapped  up  in  herself,  to  realize  how  poor 
was  the  choir's  singing.  Wonderful  it  was, 
considering  who  the  singers  were,  and  the 
disadvantages  under  which  they  labored, 
but  pitiably  destitute  of  beauty  from  any 
other  stand-point.  Maggie,  indeed,  sang 
well,  but  in  the  inharmonious  discordance 
her  part  escaped  attention.  The  choir  sat 
down  in  a  proud  flutter. 

"How  does  the  Archbishop  look?" 
whispered  Maggie. 

"  He  looks  as  if  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes,"  replied  the  one-eyed  man. 

Into  the  big  square  room,  with  its  white 
washed  walls,  the  hot  sun  streamed, 
through  the  bare  windows,  turning  into 


178         BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

yellow  insignificance  the  many  lights  that 
blazed  on  the  altar.  The  incense  from  the 
swinging  censers  tickled  the  noses  of  the 
feeble  old  folks  in  the  front  pews,  and  they 
coughed  and  sneezed  in  thrilled  and  guilty 
enjoyment.  The  sun's  rays  threw  into 
bright  relief  the  series  of  colored  pictures  on 
the  walls,  representing  scenes  connected 
with  the  crucifixion  :  "Jesus  carries  the 
Cross,"  "  Jesus  falls  the  first  time,"  "Jesus 
falls  the  second  time,"  "  Jesus  falls  the 
third  time,"  "Veronica  wipes  the  face  of 
Jesus."  The  group  of  old  soldiers,  veterans 
of  the  Civil  War,  made  an  impressive 
group,  where  they  sat  together  near  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

The  Archbishop  rose  again,  and  there 
was  infinite  pity  in  his  face  as  his  eyes  swept 
over  the  rows  and  rows  of  unfortunates, 
packed  close  in  the  long  and  narrow  pews, 
stiff  and  straight-backed,  of  yellow  wood. 
In  the  splendor  of  his  apparel,  that  in  the 
minds  of  the  tensely  awe-struck  congrega 
tion  transformed  the  bare  chapel  into  some 
thing  that  approached  the  glory  of  Heaven, 
he  spoke  of  the  poverty  of  Jesus,  of  how 
he  had  no  place  to  lay  his  head,  of  how  the 


BEFORE    THE   ARCHBISHOP 


179 


fowls  of  the  air  and  the  beasts  of  the  field 
were  better  housed ;  and  as  he  spoke,  so 
gently  and  sympathetically,  of  how  Jesus 
had  deliberately  chosen  poverty  for  his  lot, 
men  and  women  bowed  their  heads  and 
many  quietly  wept. 

Again  and  again  did  the  choir  sing,  but 


the  raucous  bass,  the  shrilling  tenor,  the 
wheezing  alto  and  the  croaking  organ  grew 
gradually  worse.  Maggie's  clear  voice  was 
vibrant  with  the  sorrow  and  hope  that 
stirred  her. 

"  Stabat  Mater  dolorosa, 
Juxta  crucem  lachrymosa, 
Dum  pendebat  Filius." 


:8o        BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

She  did  not  know  what  the  words 
meant,  but  the  Archbishop  felt,  as  she  sang 
them,  that  they  thrilled  with  unspeakable 
emotion. 

Maggie  herself,  as  one  to  receive  the  ad 
ministered  rite,  was  at  length  led  from  her 
place  in  the  gallery,  down  the  steep  stair 
way,  and  between  the  crowded  pews  to  the 
front  of  the  big  room,  where,  burning  and 
shivering  from  the  fever  of  hope  and  fear, 
she  knelt  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  Other 
men  and  other  women  knelt  beside  her,  and 
from  one  to  another  the  Archbishop  slowly 
passed,  touching  them  with  his  own  hands, 
placing  upon  their  brows  the  consecrated 
oil,  and  praying  over  each  with  loving 
gentleness.  Maggie  felt  his  touch,  she 
listened  to  the  formal  words  of  the  cere 
mony  as  in  a  dream,  and  then  he  passed  to 
the  next  one,  and  her  head  dropped  for 
ward  into  her  hands  as  she  prayed  in  an 
agony  of  supplication. 

All  at  length  was  over.  The  choir,  with 
out  the  voice  of  Maggie  to  aid  them,  sang 
again.  There  was  the  solemn  chiming  of 
the  Elevation  of  the  Host.  There  was 
the  benediction.  There  was  the  scraping, 


BEFORE   THE  ARCHBISHOP         181 

shuffling,  murmuring  medley  that  marked 
the  slow  out-passing  of  the  congregation. 
Yet  still  Maggie  waited,  still  she  prayed, 
bowed  before  the  altar,  and  with  her  face 
still  covered  with  her  hands.  She  was  not 
noticed,  for  there  was  a  sprinkling  of 
others,  also  waiting,  some  in  the  pews 
and  some  on  the  altar-steps,  and  they 
watched  with  wistfulness  as  the  flaring 
candles  were  one  by  one  extinguished. 

The  Archbishop  and  the  Jesuit  came 
out  from  behind  the  altar,  stood  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  passed  slowly  by 
where  Maggie  knelt.  Neither  of  them 
noticed  or  recognized  her. 

"Your  choir  interested  me  greatly,"  said 
the  Archbishop,  and  Maggie  well  knew 
that  it  was  his  voice,  for  she  had  listened 
with  strained  eagerness  to  every  word  ut 
tered  in  the  service  by  the  great  dignitary 
whose  favor  was  to  mean  so  much  to  her. 
As  he  spoke  of  the  choir  she  almost 
shrieked  with  delirious  joy. 

"  They  have  worked  hard,"  said  the 
priest.  "  I  am  glad  that  they  interested 
you." 

"But  I  never  heard  anything  so  pitiful," 


182         BEFORE   THE   ARCHBISHOP 

continued  the  Archbishop.  His  voice  was 
very  low,  but  Maggie  was  listening  with 
an  intensity  that  could  not  miss  a  syllable. 

"Poor  things!  How  hard  you  must 
have  worked  in  training  them!  But  it 
was  so  unutterably  sad.  It  was  painful  to 
listen  to  them." 

They  passed  on.  Maggie's  head  sank 
lower.  She  could  no  longer  even  pray. 


THE   PROMOTION   OF    BERKWATER 


THE    PROMOTION    OF    BERKWATER 

THE  story  of  Berkwater  was  one  that 
impressed  me  by  its  striking  inci 
dents. 

He  was  a  veteran  of  the  Civil  War,  and 
yet  no  one,  witnessing  his  trembling  incer 
titude,  his  humbleness,  as  he  crept  about 
Blackwell's,  could  have  guessed  that  he 
had  ever  been  a  soldier.  To  think  of  his 
having  been  an  officer  would  have  seemed 
grotesquely  absurd. 

His  story  came  to  me  oddly  enough, 
and  without  any  effort  on  my  part — a  bit 
here,  a  bit  there,  a  fact,  an  inference,  a 
word — and  at  length  the  final  link  that 
clasped  the  whole  together.  There  was  a 
certain  fascination  in  watching  the  unex 
pected  development  of  the  chain  of  cir 
cumstances. 

Berkwater  is  dead  now.  And  it  is  an 
additional  feature  of  the  strange  story  that 
185 


186  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

he  and  Elinor  Linndale  died  on  the  same 
day.  He  was  not  old  when  he  died.  He 
was  but  a  little  more  than  sixty.  But 
for  so  many  years  he  had  gone  decrepitly 
about,  forever  maundering  about  having 
told  Sherman  something — just  what,  he 
was  quite  unable  to  explain — that  he  had 
come  to  be  looked  upon  as  an  old,  old  man. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War, 
Berkwater's  home  was  in  Chicago.  He 
was  a  man  of  good  family,  a  rising  lawyer, 
affable,  popular,  and  had  a  host  of  friends. 
In  the  second  year  of  the  war  he  secured 
a  lieutenant's  commission  in  an  Illinois 
regiment,  and  went  to  the  front,  eager  for 
fame  and  glory. 

And  yet,  dearer  to  him  than  the  highest 
glory  was  the  love  of  Elinor  Linndale. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  mer 
chant.  She  was  brilliantly  attractive,  and 
Berkwater,  with  a  certain  shyness  that 
seemed  foreign  to  his  character — for  he 
appeared  to  be  dashing  and  bold — paid 
court  to  her.  Believing,  at  length,  that 
she  had  begun  to  care  for  him  in  return, 
he  decided  to  risk  his  fate  before  leaving, 
with  his  regiment,  for  the  war. 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER   187 

But  when,  resplendent  in  his  new  uni 
form,  and  with  pride  and  love  and  hope 
glowing  in  his  face,  he  actually  stood 
before  her,  he  feared  to  venture.  How 
could  he  be  so  vain  as  to  think  that  this 
charming  girl  cared  for  him  above  all  the 
world  ?  What  had  he  done  to  show  his 
worthiness  ?  No.  He  must  first  win 
fame.  Then  he  would  come  and  try  to 
win  her. 

And  so  he  could  only  say,  lamely,  and 
with  a  flushing  face,  as  he  held  her  hand 
for  a  moment  at  parting  : 

"  I  have  something  very,  very  particular 
to  say  to  you.  I  cannot  say  it  now,  as  I 
had  hoped  to.  But  on  my  first  furlough 
I  shall  ask  you  to  listen  to  me,  and  I  can 
only  hope  that  you  will  listen  with  favor." 

And  with  that  he  was  gone,  and  both 
of  them  believed  that  it  was  only  modesty 
or  shyness,  and  not  fear,  that  made  him 
hesitate. 

His  military  career  began  auspiciously. 
By  the  charm  of  his  personality,  combined 
with  commendable  though  by  no  means 
brilliant  service,  he  won  the  good-will  of 
his  superior  officers,  and  was  advanced  to 


i88  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

the  rank  of  captain,  and  then  to  that  of 
major. 

At  Chickamauga  came  a  brilliant  oppor 
tunity.  His  regiment  had  been  stub 
bornly  fighting,  near  the  old  mill  that, 
close-hemmed  by  trees,  stood  by  the  creek 
across  which  much  of  the  battle  surged 
back  and  forth.  Hard  pressed  by  a  body 
of  the  enemy,  who  were  pouring  a  deadly 
fire  from  behind  a  barricade  of  logs,  and 
making  the  position  of  the  regiment  intol 
erable,  Berkwater  led  a  flank  attack  upon 
them  with  desperate  bravery.  The  little 
body  of  men  that  followed  his  wild  rush 
dashed,  with  him,  over  the  hostile  barri 
cade,  and  killed  or  scattered  the  enemy 
who  had  fought  from  behind  it. 

Not  only  was  it  an  act  of  supreme 
bravery,  to  thus  lead  men  on  such  a  for 
lorn  hope,  but  the  effect  of  the  dash  was 
to  allow  a  large  body  of  Federal  troops  to 
retire  in  safety  from  a  position  that  would 
have  meant  annihilation. 

Berkwater  trembled,  in  the  reaction 
that  followed  his  deed,  and  his  face  was 
very  white  as  his  colonel  galloped  up  and 
shouted  :  "  Splendidly  done,  major  !  " 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER  189 

And  his  face  was  very  pale,  and  he  was 
very  silent,  when  afterward  he  received 
the  compliments  of  his  brother  officers. 
His  men  were  warm  in  his  praise,  and  his 
reputation  for  daring  spread  through  the 
corps. 

Berkwater's  colonel  was,  like  himself,  a 
Chicago  man,  and  he  not  only  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  Linndales,  but  knew, 
also,  that  Berkwater  was  a  suitor  of  El 
inor's.  He  felt  great  pride  in  his  brave 
and  handsome  major,  and  as  soon  as  possi 
ble  secured  him  a  furlough. 

"  You  haven't  asked  for  it,  but  I  don't 
know  of  anyone  who  better  deserves  it, 
or  who  would  take  pleasanter  advantage 
of  it,"  he  said,  cordially. 

Berkwater  could  not  decline  the  fur 
lough,  thus  warmly  offered.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  was  by  no  means  ready  to  go  to 
Chicago.  He  was  not  ready  to  speak  to 
Elinor.  And  yet,  should  he  decline  the 
furlough,  he  knew  that  the  Linndales 
would  be  very  likely  to  hear  of  it,  through 
their  friend,  the  colonel,  and  in  that  case 
there  could  be  but  one  explanation  in 
Elinor's  mind.  And  so,  with  apparent 


190  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

pleasure,  he  accepted  the  furlough,  and 
started  for  home. 

Berkwater  knew  that  in  Elinor's  charac 
ter  pride  was  the  strongest  factor.  He 
knew  how  profound  was  her  nature,  and 
of  what  a  depth  of  love  she  was  capable, 
but  that  strongest  of  all  was  her  pride. 

The  war  had  intensely  aroused  her,  and 
she  watched  every  phase  of  the  great 
struggle  with  absorbed  interest.  She  felt 
a  pride  in  the  successes  of  the  army,  and  a 
still  deeper  and  keener  pride  in  the  career 
of  Allen  Berkwater,  for  she  knew  that  he 
loved  her,  and  that  she  loved  him  in 
return.  She  entered  into  the  work  of  the 
Sanitary  Commission,  and  unweariedly 
devoted  herself  to  it  ;  and  watched,  mean 
while,  the  reports  that  told  of  Berkwater's 
progress.  She  learned  of  his  splendid  con 
duct  at  Chickamauga,  and  glowed  with 
pride  and  joy.  She  knew  what  she  would 
tell  him  when  he  should  return,  on  his 
first  furlough,  and  ask  her — 

But  when  he  stood  before  her,  she  could 
scarcely  realize  that  it  was  really  he.  This 
man,  with  his  eyes  sunken,  his  face  hag 
gard  and  drawn,  and  with  an  aspect  that 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER    191 

was  stern  as  with  some  strange  resolve  ! 
The  explanation  came  with  sharp  abrupt 
ness,  after  the  first  few  words  of  talk  and 
greeting. 

"  You    think    me   brave.     I    have   won 


praise  for  my  conduct  at  Chickamauga. 
But  it  is  all  a  mistake — worse  than  a  mis 
take  !  Nobody  has  suspected  my  secret, 
but  it  is  due  to  you  that  you  know  it.  I 
was  a  coward  !  When  they  thought  I  was 
so  brave,  I  was  actually  running  away,  and 


192  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

fought  when  I  saw  that  I  could  not  help 
myself,  as  the  men  crowded  after  me  in 
the  rush  !  " 

Elinor's  pride  was  too  deeply  stung  for 
her  to  recognize  that  in  making  this  avowal, 
so  that  she  would  not  accept  him  under 
false  appearances,  Berkwater  was  showing 
bravery  of  a  rare  order.  Nor  was  she  able 
to  see  that  there  was  a  change  in  the  man  : 
that  his  character  had  been  strengthened, 
and  purified  of  much  of  its  dross.  Her 
pride  was  dominant,  and  blinded  her  to 
considerations  that  love  alone  might  have 
heeded.  And  Berkwater  went  back  to  the 
army,  a  heart-broken  man. 

His  regiment  had  been  transferred  to  the 
command  of  General  Sherman,  who  was 
carefully  preparing  for  the  Georgia  cam 
paign.  When  Berkwater  rejoined  the 
army,  and  reported  for  duty,  his  colonel 
greeted  him  with  cordial  warmth,  and 
then  said  : 

"  Major  Berkwater,  let  me  be  the  first 
to  congratulate  you.  General  Sherman 
has  learned  of  your  bravery  at  Chicka- 
mauga;  and,  in  filling  some  vacancies  and 
preparing  for  a  campaign  that  is  likely  to 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER  193 

prove  of  vital  importance,  has  decided  to 
give  you  a  colonelcy.  I  shall  be  sorry  to 
lose  you  from  my  own  command,  but  I  am 
heartily  glad  that  this  promotion  has  come 
to  you." 

Berkwater  was  so  elated  that  for  a  mo 
ment  he  forgot  that  his  advancement 
could  no  longer  mean  anything  to  Elinor. 
He  pictured  to  himself  how  proud  she 
would  be,  and  then  came  the  swift  remem 
brance  that  all  was  over  between  them. 

Soon,  too,  came  another  reflection,  that 
turned  him  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  and 
made  him  only  abstractedly  continue  the 
conversation  with  his  colonel,  to  whose 
friendship  and  whose  representations  to 
Sherman  the  new  promotion  was  due. 

Out  upon  the  Chattanooga  streets  went 
Berkwater,  and  there  he  restlessly  wan 
dered  up  and  down.  Night  had  fallen, 
and  in  the  great  camp  that  filled  and  over 
flowed  the  town  there  was  quiet,  save  for 
now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter  from 
some  tent,  the  steady  beat  of  the  sentries 
pacing  their  rounds,  the  challenge  and  re 
sponse  of  pedestrians,  or  the  hasty  gallop 
of  some  orderly  through  the  streets. 


194  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

Berkwater  made  his  resolution,  and  then 
walked  firmly  to  the  headquarters  of  Gen 
eral  Sherman  and  asked  to  be  admitted  to 
his  presence.  Sherman,  deeming  that  only 
a  matter  of  importance  could  prompt  a  call 
at  such  an  hour,  ordered  that  he  be  ad 
mitted. 

Berkwater  entered.  Before  the  gen 
eral's  penetrating  glance  he  quailed.  He 
looked  fixedly  at  that  face  of  grizzled  firm 
ness  which,  though  kindly,  showed  im 
movability  in  every  line,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  he  hesitated. 

"  Well,  sir  ?  "  The  words  came  with 
sharp  impatience,  quick  and  stern. 

"  General  Sherman,  I  understand  that  I 
am  to  be  commissioned  a  colonel  for  brav 
ery." 

"  This  is  very  unusual  conduct,  sir. 
Well  ?  " 

Berkwater  stood  very  straight  and  very 
pale.  He  spoke  with  nervous  quickness. 

"  I  don't  want  the  commission,  sir.  I 
— I  don't  deserve  it.  I  ought  not  to  have 
had  any  credit.  I — I  was  a  coward.  I 
was  running  away." 

Sherman's  countenance  was  inscrutably 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER  195 

grave  and  watchful,  yet  there  was  a  touch 
of  human  interest  somehow  apparent — a 
touch  of  pity — and  when  he  said,  curtly, 
"  Tell  me  about  it,"  the  young  man  told 
him  the  whole  miserable  tale,  concealing 
nothing  of  his  shameful  fright. 

The  general  listened  in  silence  till  the 
story  was  ended,  and  then  continued  to 
look  fixedly  at  the  young  fellow,  who 
stood,  wretchedly  expectant,  before  him. 

"  There,"  said  Sherman,  pointing  to  a 
paper  that  lay  on  the  table,  "  is  the  com 
mission  that  was  intended  for  you." 

Berkwater  miserably  bowed.  Sherman 
arose,  walked  slowly  to  the  table,  and  took 
the  commission  thoughtfully  in  his  hand. 
He  held  it  toward  Berkwater. 

"Take  it!" 

The  young  man  took  it  in  dazed  aston 
ishment. 

"  Major  Berkwater — Colonel  Berkwater 
— the  commission  is  yours.  You  have 
been  tried  in  as  severe  an  ordeal  as  a  bat 
tle,  and  have  not  been  found  wanting. 
Yet  I  realize  that,  while  you  have  thus 
shown  yourself  morally  brave,  it  is  possi 
ble  for  you  again  to  fail  physically  as  you 


1 96  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

failed  before.  See  to  it  that  you  do  not  ! 
Do  not  make  me  regret  that  I  have  taken 
this  course  !  I  trust  you — and  there  must 
be  no  wavering!  In  the  coming  campaign 
I  shall  see  that  you  have  a  chance  to  show 
what  kind  of  soldier  you  really  are." 

Completely  overcome,  Berkvvater  began 
to  stammer  a  reply,  but  Sherman  inter 
rupted  him.  "  Not  a  word  more.  And 
now,  leave  me,  for  I  am  very  busy." 

In  the  Atlanta  campaign,  that  followed, 
Berkwater  was  indeed  given  ample  oppor 
tunity  to  show  that  his  cowardice  had  van 
ished  and  that  he  was  a  changed  man. 
His  regiment  took  part  in  many  battles 
amid  those  Georgia  hills  and  pine  forests. 
With  difficulty  at  first,  but  afterward  with 
the  self-command  that  comes  to  a  spirit 
victorious  over  itself,  he  exposed  himself 
freely — too  freely,  as  some  thought — and 
on  every  occasion  acted  with  intrepid  cour 
age.  His  men  idolized  him,  and  were 
ready  to  follow  him  anywhere. 

After  the  Battle  of  Atlanta  he  wrote  to 
Elinor.  He  told  her,  with  frank  manli 
ness,  that  he  had  not  ceased  to  think  of 
her  and  to  love  her,  and  that  he  had  be- 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER   197 

gun  to  hope,  in  spite  of  her  decision  against 
him,  that  there  might  still  be  a  chance  to 
win  her  regard.  He  told  her  that  he  was 
a  changed  man,  that  he  was  sure  the  ten 
dency  to  cowardice  had  been  overcome, 
that  General  Sherman  himself  had  com 
plimented  him  in  General  Orders.  Would 
she  not  forget  the  past  ? 
Her  reply  was  brief. 

"  I  am  sincerely  glad  that  the  change 
has  come,  but  there  is  still  something  that 
I  cannot  bring  myself  to  overlook.  I  read 
in  the  papers  that  you  received  your  pro 
motion  as  colonel  on  account  of  your  con 
duct  at  Chickamauga.  It  was  your  duty, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  to  tell  General  Sherman 
of  the  actual  circumstances,  and  then  wait 
for  your  promotion  till  you  could  receive 
it  without  concealing  anything.  It  is  a 
bitter  question  to  ask— but  how  can  I  be 
sure  that  your  career  since  then  has  not 
also  been  owing  to  chance  ?  " 

The  cold  injustice  of  the  letter  hurt 
him  keenly.  He  could  not  know  that 
she  still  cared  for  him,  and  that  it  was  the 
struggle  between  her  pride  and  her  affec- 


198  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

tion  that  had  resulted  in  such  a  harshly 
written  note.  Berkvvater  never  suspected 
how  Elinor  suffered  from  the  triumph  of 
her  own  pride.  He  wrote  no  reply  to  her, 
for  his  own  pride  was  too  deeply  touched 
by  her  unfair  judging  of  the  case  against 
him. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  the  receipt 
of  her  letter  that,  in  a  tierce  skirmish  near 
Jonesboro,  Berkvvater  was  desperately 
wounded  and  left  on  the  field.  He  was 
cut  across  the  face  with  a  sabre,  and  a 
bullet  went  through  his  neck,  at  the  very 
base  of  the  brain.  His  body  was  stripped 
and  plundered  while  he  lay  unconscious, 
and  when  he  was  afterwards  taken  from 
the  field  and  carried  away  a  prisoner,  the 
bullet  wound  had  caused  such  a  benumb 
ing  palsy  of  the  senses  that  he  could  not 
even  tell  his  own  name.  There  was  no 
suspicion  that  he  was  an  officer,  and  he 
was  sent  to  Andersonville  prison. 

He  had  been  seen  by  his  own  soldiers 
to  fall,  badly  wounded  ;  and  as  he  was 
never  afterward  heard  from  it  became 
generally  believed  that  he  must  be  dead. 
Elinor  Linndale  read  of  his  disappearance, 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER  199 

and  later,  through  his  former  colonel, 
learned  that  hope  of  ever  hearing  from 
him  had  been  given  up,  and  that  it  was 
looked  upon  as  certain  that  he  was  dead. 

In  spite  of  her  grief,  she  could  not 
but  feel  a  relief  that  the  man  she  had 
loved  was  forever  beyond  the  possibility 
of  disgracing  himself.  No  suspicion  that 
she  had  misjudged  him  ever  came  to 
her. 

Berkwater  was  released  at  the  close  of 
the  war,  and  sent  to  the  North,  a  wreck. 
Landing  at  New  York,  he  was  not  sent  to 
a  military  home  or  hospital,  for  he  was 
quite  unable  to  give  any  explanation  of 
himself,  and  there  were  no  papers  upon 
him  such  as  the  formalities  of  the  time  re 
quired  before  a  military  institution  would 
open  its  red-taped  doors. 

He  was  gentle,  quiet,  and  needed  but 
little  attention.  He  was  sent  to  Bellevue 
Hospital,  and  there  remained  for  a  long 
time,  attracting  the  kind  attention  of 
the  surgeons  by  his  simple  helplessness. 
Under  their  care  he  came  at  length  to 
remember  that  his  name  was  Berkwater, 
but  what  his  first  name  was,  what  was  his 


200  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

history,  or  who  were  his  friends,  he  was 
quite  unable  to  tell,  even  after  the  most 
careful  and  patient  questioning. 

"  I  was  promoted,  but  I  told  Sherman 
all  about  it,"  he  would  say.  And  then 
he  would  add,  with  strange  earnestness, 
"  Yes,  I  told  Sherman  all  about  it." 

At  all  other  times  his  talk  was  confined 
altogether  to  the  simplest  matters  of  his 
daily  life  and  surroundings.  The  past  was 
blotted  out,  save  for  the  vague  memory 
that  his  few  words  about  Sherman  repre 
sented. 

In  the  course  of  time  it  became  neces 
sary  to  transfer  him  to  Blackwell's  Island, 
and  he  became  an  inmate  of  the  Alms- 
house,  on  the  ground  that  medical  and  sur 
gical  care  could  not  benefit  him,  and  that 
the  cots  of  the  city's  hospitals  ought  to  be 
occupied  only  by  those  whom  the  doctors 
could  help. 

In  the  Almshouse  he  then  remained, 
growing  gray  and  bent  and  feeble,  and 
from  time  to  time  being  led  by  one  of  the 
group  of  old  soldiers  among  the  inmates 
to  a  meeting  of  Friendless  Post,  where  he 
seemed  to  get  into  his  poor  vacant  mind 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER   201 

that  the  men  about  him  were  veterans. 
He  would  sit  beside  them,  in  drowsy  pa 
tience,  for  hours,  and  once  in  a  while 
would  pipe  out,  feebly  : 

"  I  told  Sherman  about  it.  I  was  pro 
moted,  but  I  told  General  Sherman." 

Many  years  thus  passed.  And  one  day 
a  party  of  ladies,  a  committee  from  an 
association  for  the  amelioration  of  the 
condition  of  the  poor,  visited  Blackwell's 
Island,  and  were  shown  through  the  va 
rious  institutions.  At  the  Almshouse  they 
were  particularly  interested,  and  asked  to 
be  led  through  every  building  and  every 
ward,  even  where  lay  the  sick. 

Into  one  of  the  sick-wards  poor  Berk- 
water  had  been  carried  the  week  before. 
The  ladies  reached  that  ward,  and  were 
met  by  the  surgeon  in  charge. 

"  I  feel  deeply  interested  in  these  unfort 
unates,  Dr.  Clark,"  said  the  gray-haired 
chairman  of  the  committee.  "  Ever  since 
making  my  home  in  this  city,  three  years 
ago,  I  have  planned  to  visit  this  island, 
and  yet  this  is  the  first  time  that  I  have 
gotten  over  here." 

"  You  will  find  the  study  very  interest- 


202  THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER 

ing,  Miss  Linndale,"  returned  the  doctor; 
"  but  it  will  be  affecting  as  well.  Look  at 
that  poor  fellow — the  one  with  the  great 
scar  across  his  face.  No  one  knows  who 
he  is.  He  hobbles  around  the  Island, 
when  he  is  well  enough  to  be  out.  He 


has  been  here  for  many  years.  He  wants 
to  be  cheerful  and  helpful,  and  can  tell 
absolutely  nothing  of  his  own  past  or  of 
his  friends.  He  may  live  for  years  yet, 
and  without  any  change." 

"  Poor   fellow!"  said  Elinor  Linndale; 
while  Allen   Berkwater,  realizing  that  he 


THE  PROMOTION  OF  BERKWATER  203 

was   the   subject    of    conversation,   piped 
shrilly  as  the  party  passed  beyond  him : 

"  I  told  Sherman  about  it.  Yes,  I  was 
promoted !  But  I  told  General  Sher 
man  ! " 


ON    CHERRY   HILL 


ON    CHERRY    HILL 

"   JENNIE!     Jennie!      For  the  love  o' 
»J    Heaven,  Jennie  !    Give  me  the  kid  !  " 

But  Jennie  laughed  shrilly,  and  con 
tinued  her  stumbling  walk,  while  her  old 
mother,  bareheaded,  and  with  thin  wisps 
of  gray  hair  fluttering  in  the  night  wind, 
followed  close  behind.  Hoarsely,  and 
with  supplicative  iteration,  she  continued 
to  beg  for  the  child,  heedless  of  the  driz 
zling  rain  that  was  steadily  falling. 

"Jennie!  Jennie!  For  the  love  o' 
Heaven  ! "  But  Jennie  was  not  to  be 
touched  by  appeals  to  either  the  love  of 
Heaven  or  of  her  child.  The  little  thing 
was  less  than  a  year  old,  and  she  carried  it 
alternately  by  an  arm,  a  leg,  or  its  body, 
and  it  was  too  dumbly  frightened  to  cry. 
Jennie  was  not  very  drunk,  but  she  walked 
unsteadily,  and  all  the  obstinacy  of  her 
nature  had  been  developed. 
207 


208  ON    CHERRY    HILL 

The  old  woman  touched  her  arm. 
"Jennie!"  But  the  girl  turned  fiercely 
upon  her,  and  the  mother  retreated,  shrink 
ing. 

"  I'm  looking  for  Pete  !  I'm  going  to 
give  the  kid  to  him."  The  words  were 
uttered  loudly,  and  with  a  distinct  air  of 
defiance  toward  the  little  crowd  that  was 
following.  Some  of  the  people  tried  to 
laugh,  with  knowing  intonation,  but  the 
laugh  soon  died  away. 

Past  old  doorways,  with  fan-shaped  win 
dows  above  and  columns  on  either  side — 
for  in  these  dismally  dilapidated  tenements 
wealth  and  social  eminence  once  dwelt — 
Jennie  slowly  swung.  There  were  houses 
of  irregular  height,  standing  at  irregular 
angles  with  the  sidewalks.  There  were 
threateningly  dark  passage-ways,  leading 
to  other  and  dingier  tenements  in  the  rear. 
Past  the  end  of  the  street  an  elevated 
train  noisily  rattled.  From  the  great 
bridge,  above,  swinging  on  its  huge  curve 
toward  Brooklyn,  came  the  rumble  of 
trains  and  the  clangor  of  gongs.  Far  aloft 
there  glowed  electric  lights  that  twinkled 
hopefully  through  the  rain,  and  Jennie, 


ON   CHERRY    HILL  209 

glancing  up,  was  impressed  for  a  moment, 
vaguely,  as  if  by  the  possibility  of  some 
thing  bright  but  unattainable.  Below,  on 
Cherry  Hill,  dim  street-lamps  shone  miser 
ably  in  the  gloom.  Saloon  lights  cut 
broad  swaths  in  the  dismal  darkness,  and 
contrasted  with  the  gloom  of  open-doored 
halls  and  the  dark  passage-ways. 

Jennie — "  Handsome  Jennie,"  as  she  was 
called — was  scarcely  more  than  eighteen, 
and  her  eyes  were  luminously  dark,  her 
figure  neat  and  trim.  She  swung  past  a 
lamp-post,  and  let  the  baby's  body  strike 
against  it.  The  little  thing  whimpered, 
whereupon  Jennie  dashed  her  hand  against 
its  cheek.  It  stopped  its  whimper,  and 
Jennie  said,  with  a  wild  laugh  : 

"  Pete  used  to  say  it  made  too  much 
noise.  I  didn't  know  how  to  stop  it  then." 

She  bumped  it  against  a  house  stoop. 
The  crowd,  composed  though  it  was  of 
the  worst  elements  of  Cherry  Hill,  was 
very  silent.  It  takes  a  good  deal  to  awe 
Cherry  Hill,  but  Cherry  Hill  was  awed. 
Still,  no  one  interfered.  It  is  a  part  of 
New  York  where  it  is  not  customary  to  in 
terfere  in  strictly  family  affairs. 


210  ON    CHERRY   HILL 

"  Jennie  !  For  the  love  o'  Heaven  ! 
Give  me  the  kid  !  " 

But  the  girl  only  repeated  :  "  I'm  going 
to  find  Pete,  and  give  the  kid  to  him!" 
Then,  twisting  and  twirling  the  child  in 
her  arms,  she  began  to  sing.  It  was  a 
plaintive  love-song,  but  her  voice  made  her 
listeners  shiver.  She  brought  the  child  up 
in  front  of  her  with  a  jerk  of  one  of  its 
pipe-stem  legs,  and  deliberately  scratched 
its  cheek.  The  scratches  were  not  deep,  but 
the  blood  came.  There  was  a  remonstrant 
murmur  from  the  crowd, and  the  old  mother 
tugged  at  her  daughter's  arm  and  shrieked. 
The  girl  again  turned  fiercely,  and  again  the 
mother  shrank  back,  while  her  shriek  died 
away  in  a  maundering  moan.  No  one 
thought  of  the  police,  for  on  Cherry  Hill 
they  are  never  sent  for,  but  only  come 
when  uninvited. 

Jennie  held  the  child  in  the  light  of  a 
saloon  window,  and  said,  with  dull  calm 
ness  :  "  Pete  said  it  was  just  a  white-faced 
little  thing.  I  wonder  what  he'll  think  of 
it  now." 

"  Can't  somebody  find  Pete  and  get  this 
thing  stopped  ?  "  said  one  of  the  men,  and 


ON    CHERRY    HILL  211 

at  this  a  girl  laughed  jeeringly.  "  If  you 
want  to  find  Pete  you  needn't  look  where 
Jennie  is  !  He's  off  with — 

But  another  girl  checked  her.  "  Don't 
let  her  hear  that.  Her  heart's  broke 
a'ready." 

Jennie  reached  the  top  of  the  low  slope. 
Directly  above  her  hung  an  arch  of  the 
mighty  bridge.  On  the  very  spot  where  a 
great  abutment  towered,  there  had  stood 
the  first  presidential  mansion  occupied  by 
George  Washington  after  his  inauguration. 
Jennie  had  never  heard  of  Washington, 
but  the  darkly  massive  pile  of  stone,  con 
trasting  with  the  old  tenements  and  the 
garish  lights,  somehow  impressed  her.  The 
little  crowd  formed  in  a  semicircle,  and 
watched  her,  silently.  In  that  open  space 
there  had  stood,  generations  before,  the 
grove  of  cherry-trees  that  had  given  the 
once  delightful  spot  its  name.  From  that 
spot,  down  to  the  East  River,  where  now 
were  narrow  streets  crowded  with  tene 
ments,  there  had  swept  the  finely  kept 
grounds  of  early  residents. 

Jennie  leaned  against  the  massive  abut 
ment  that  marked  the  site  of  Washington's 


ON    CHERRY    HILL 


home,  and  might  have  fancied  that  there 
was  a  grave  and  quieting  influence  there, 
for  she  grew  calm,  and  held  the  baby  close, 
and  softly  wept  over  it.  The  watching 

crowd  grew    more 
still. 

There  was  a  sud 
den  stir,  and  a  cry 
of  astonishment. 
"Here's  Pete!" 
And  a  young  man 
pushed  his  way  to 
the  front.  He 
looked  at  none  of 
those  who  fell  back 
on  either  hand,  but 
\valked  straight  up 
to  the  girl,  who 
stood,  rigid  and 
with  parted  lips, 
staring  at  him. 

"  Jennie,  let  me 
have  that  kid! " 
She  started,  and  held  its  bleeding  face 
closer  against  her  breast.  "  I  dassent.  You'd 
hurt  it ! "     And  then  she  furtively  wiped 
its  cheek  with  the  sleeve  of  her  cheap  gown. 


ON    CHERRY   HILL  213 

"  Give  me  the  kid  !  "  With  a  dry  sob 
she  handed  it  to  him.  The  couple  stood, 
with  the  child  between  them,  and  the 
hands  of  both  were  touching  it.  Remorse 
and  tenderness  were  in  the  eyes  of  one, 
while  love  and  longing  shone,  frightened, 
from  those  of  the  other. 

The  policeman  on  post  came  briskly  up, 
and  with  him  was  a  clergyman  who  was  on 
his  way  to  his  home  in  one  of  the  "  settle 
ment  houses "  that  dot  the  great  East 
Side.  He  was  a  man  who  had  devoted 
himself  to  work  in  the  tenements,  and  Pete 
at  once  recognized  him. 

"  Mister,  me  an'  Jennie  wants  to  get 
married,  and  was  just  wonderin'  where 
we'd  find  you.  And  we'd  like  it  done 
right  now,  sir,  if  you  please." 

The  clergyman  was  one  of  those  rare 
men  who,  a  worker  among  the  poor  and 
wretched,  really  understood  those  among 
whom  he  labored.  He  saw  that  it  was  not 
a  case  for  delay.  He  took  off  his  hat. 
The  policeman,  at  the  risk  of  being  seen 
by  a  roundsman,  removed  his  helmet. 
Every  man  in  the  crowd  stood  with  un 
covered  head.  The  young  couple  joined 


214  ON   CHERRY   HILL 

hands,  and  the  policeman  took  the  baby, 
letting  it  play  with  his  night-stick  to  keep 
it  still.  The  drizzling  rain  turned  to  a 
heavy  shower,  but  no  one  heeded  it. 

"Whom  God  hath  joined  together," 
said  the  minister,  solemnly  ;  and  when  the 
brief  ceremony  was  over  Pete  took  the 
child  from  the  policeman's  arms  and  han 
dled  it  with  awe. 

Jennie  laughed  happily.  "  Let  me  take 
it!  You'll  drop  it!" 

It  cooed  up  in  her  face,  and  she  kissed  it 
passionately.  Then  Cherry  Hill  went  in 
out  of  the  rain. 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 


A    PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

A  ROOM  on  the  third  floor  of  a  tumble 
down  old  structure  on  Orchard 
Street;  a  building  of  frame;  and  it  stood 
there  tremulously,  with  its  facade  pitched 
forward  as  with  the  stoop  of  an  old  man, 
and  its  coat  of  gray  faded  and  streaked  into 
shabbiness,  and  its  little  eyes,  looking  from 
two  old  dormers,  dull  and  bleared. 

Two  flights  of  trembling  stairs  led  to 
the  room.  It  was  broad  and  low,  around 
it  stood  cases  filled  with  books  and  manu 
scripts,  and  here  and  there  were  a  few 
small  tables  and  some  chairs.  On  a  low 
stool  at  one  side,  and  sitting  very  stiff  and 
very  straight,  was  little  Selma  Weidberg. 
The  room  was  lighted  by  lamps,  that 
burned  but  dimly,  and  made  the  old  men 
who  were  poring  over  the  books  and 
parchments,  over  the  Talmud  and  the 
volumes  of  Jewish  law  and  rabbinical  lore, 
peer  closely  to  decipher  the  words. 
217 


2i8       A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

Thick  dark  hair,  beards  of  great  length, 
of  gray  or  of  mingled  gray  and  black,  eyes 
that  glowed  with  soft  mysteriousness,  lit 
by  inner-burning  fires,  fingers  tenuous, 
almost  claw-like,  from  the  constant  touch 
ing  and  handling  of  crumbly  pages  :  and 
Selma  looked  at  the  skull-capped  men,  as 
grave  and  as  thoughtful  as  they,  while 
the  old  men,  glancing  back  at  her,  smiled 
in  kindliness,  for  it  was  pleasant  to  them 
to  see  her  there.  The  glow  of  the  lamps 
left  their  patriarchal  faces  half  in  shadow 
and  half  in  light,  and  gave  lambent  lustres 
to  sheets  of  olden  yellow,  and  left  shadows 
in  the  distant  corners  of  the  ample,  low- 
ceiled  room  ;  shadows  that  were  almost 
terrifying,  in  their  grotesque  mystery,  when 
Selma,  as  a  very  little  child,  first  began  to 
visit  there  and  to  occupy  that  stool. 

Some  of  the  men  were  rabbis;  Jewish 
priests  and  teachers ;  all  were  known  as 
rabbis  in  the  loose  nomenclature  of  the 
East  Side,  for  all  were  students,  and 
wrapped  up  in  Jewish  lore,  even  though 
they  daily  followed  unpretending  voca 
tions.  The  father  of  Selma  kept  a  little 
shop  where  he  sold  second-hand  clothes, 


Their  patriarchal  faces  half  in  shadow. 


and  he  had  several  agents  who  went 
through  the  city,  buying  cast-off  garments 
for  little  or  nothing. 

Abraham  Weidberg  was  younger  than 
the  other  men  who  frequented  the  book- 
room,  and  his  air  of  solemn  dignity  was  to 
quite  an  extent  gained  through  associa 
tion  with  his  companions,  who  were  more 
learned  and  more  venerable  than  he,  studi 
ous  and  wise  though  he  was. 

It  was  only  once  in  a  while  that  Selma 
was  allowed  to  accompany  her  father  on 
his  visits  to  the  room,  and  to  these  occa 
sions  she  looked  forward  with  the  keenest 
expectation  and  enjoyed  them  with  raptur 
ous  delight,  though  she  sat  so  still  on  the 
little  stool  that  the  old  men,  who  looked 
so  kindly  at  her,  thought  she  must  surely 
be  wearied. 

The  building,  in  spite  of  its  dilapidation, 
was  still  strong.  It  was  built  with  the 
stoutest  flooring,  and  with  huge  oaken 
beams,  and  bade  fair  to  outlast  many  a 
fresh  and  pretentious  upstart  of  brick  that, 
thin-walled  and  weak-girdered,  had  arisen 
near  it.  And  because  the  building  was 
still  strong,  in  spite  of  its  age  and  its 


222       A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

apparent  weakness,  the  second  floor  was 
used  as  a  hall,  where  societies  met,  and 
where,  at  times,  there  were  gatherings  of 
the  garment  workers,  of  one  or  another  of 
the  many  classes,  of  the  great  East  Side. 
Partitions  had  been  taken  down,  and  a 
stage  erected  at  one  end,  and  mirrors 
placed  completely  around  the  sides.  These 
mirrors  were  the  delight  of  the  people  who 
met  there,  for  they  reflected  the  large 
number  actually  present,  and  the  large  low 
room,  into  a  hall  of  stately  dimensions, 
filled  with  a  vast  assemblage. 

Through  the  thick  floor  there  sometimes 
came  up  to  the  rabbis  the  sounds  of  shouts 
and  cheers  and  stampings,  but  these 
annoyed  the  bearded  men  but  little,  for 
their  ears  were  well  accustomed  to  the 
noise  and  hum  of  the  East  Side,  where 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  stillness,  packed 
and  congested  and  massed  together  as 
those  tens  of  thousands  of  people  are,  in 
that  most  thickly  populated  portion  of  the 
entire  world. 

But  little  Selma  heard  and  noticed  the 
sounds,  and  her  mind  busied  itself  with 
speculations  as  to  what  those  noisy  men 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA       223 

were  doing,  down  below  her.  And  once 
in  a  while  there  came  into  the  quiet  book- 
room  a  young  man  who,  as  she  vaguely 
understood,  at  times  took  part  in  those 
meetings  that  made  so  much  of  turmoil— 
a  turmoil  so  in  contrast  with  the  quiet  of 
the  book-room. 

Enoch  Heimann  was  his  name,  and  he 
was  handsome  and  full  of  energy  and 
enthusiasm.  Quiet  he  always  was,  when 
in  the  book-room,  but  it  was  a  quiet  be 
hind  which  lay  potentialities  of  action. 
Even  Selma,  though  but  a  little  girl,  could 
in  some  sort  see  that  he  was  a  strong  man 
— a  man  of  physical  vigor,  and  strong  in 
ardent  mentality.  He  was  a  man  made 
for  action  rather  than  for  dreaming,  and 
yet  he  was  a  dreamer  too :  and  Selma 
came  to  look  upon  him  with  a  sort  of  wor 
shipping  awe,  as  she  did  upon  the  patri 
archal  longbeards  who  were  the  regular 
habitues  of  the  place. 

He  was  broad-shouldered,  and  held 
himself  very  erect.  His  forehead  was  both 
high  and  broad,  and  over  it  his  black  hair 
obdurately  clustered  in  short  curls  that  he 
tried  in  vain  to  flatten.  His  eyes  were 


224       A    PROPOSAL    DURING    SHIVA 

full  and  dark.  He  could  talk  with  fluent 
ease,  and  had  a  way  of  touching  the  hearts 
and  the  understandings  of  his  listeners. 
The  bearded  rabbis  liked  him,  too,  because 
he  could  listen,  in  long  retentive  silences, 
while  they  poured  out  for  him  the  wisdom 
that  they  had  garnered  during  their  years 
of  studious  life.  They  liked  him  because 
he  wanted  to  keep  up  the  prosperity  and 
strength  of  the  Jewish  people — wanted 
them  to  be  both  wise  and  great. 

He  was  of  poor  parents.  His  father 
was  a  refugee  from  Russia,  and  had  mar 
ried,  in  New  York,  a  handsome  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  Jew  of  Portugal.  Enoch 
grew  to  manhood  with  a  bitter  dislike  for 
the  established  order  of  things  and  for  the 
rule  of  wealth.  With  his  powerful  mind, 
and  his  education  (for  his  father  had  given 
him  the  best  that  the  public  schools  of 
New  York  could  offer),  the  young  man 
might  have  made  himself  a  favorite  among 
a  wealthy  class.  But  he  never  attempted 
this.  He  looked  on  the  Jews  of  wealth, 
such  as  those  whose  names  he  saw  over 
scores  of  business  establishments  on  Broad 
way,  as  being  almost  as  fully  aliens  as  if 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA       225 

they  were  not  Jews.  It  was  with  the 
myriads  of  the  Hebrews  of  the  packed 
tenements  that  his  soul  was  bound  up. 

Selma  never  knew  just  when  it  was  that 
she  first  began  to  notice  Enoch  Heimann. 
He  grew  gradually  into  the  girl's  conscious 
ness,  as  a  part  of  the  dreamy  old  room ;  and 
also,  much  as  she  admired  him,  as  an  ele 
ment  of  threatened  unrest.  He,  for  his  part, 
grew  to  like  to  see  the  child  there.  To  his 
mind,  touched  with  a  leaven  of  poesy,  the 
girl  was  a  sort  of  guardian  spirit  there,  with 
her  eyes  so  big  with  wondering  awe. 

Sometimes,  after  poring  over  musty 
books,  and  talking  with  slow  gravity  with 
some  rabbi,  he  would  walk  over  to  the  lit 
tle  stool,  and  would  speak  gently  to  Sel 
ma  ;  and  she  would  answer  with  a  bright 
ening  look,  but  also  with  a  gravity  that 
befitted  the  book-room,  so  dimly  dusky 
with  learning. 

And  one  night  he  thought  the  girl 
looked  sleepy — it  was  far  past  the  hour  at 
which  Weidberg  usually  went  home,  on 
the  nights  that  Selma  was  with  him — and 
Heimann  told  him  that  he  would  take  the 
girl  to  her  mother,  as  he  himself  lived  near 


226      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

their  home,  which  was  on  Stanton  Street. 
And  the  girl  put  her  hand  trustfully  in 
his,  and  went  away  with  him  ;  like  a  child, 
indeed,  and  yet,  so  Heimann  thought,  in 
some  ways  more  like  a  woman. 

After  that,  as  the  months  and  years 
crept  by,  Enoch  kept  up  the  habit  of,  once 
in  a  while,  walking  home  with  the  girl  ; 
and  Selma  grew  to  young  womanhood, 
with  Enoch  thus  a  part  of  her  life. 

It  never  seemed  strange  to  her  that  this 
big  and  handsome  man  should  have  estab 
lished  himself  as  a  sort  of  guardian.  Noth 
ing  seemed  strange  to  her  that  came  from 
the  duskily  lighted  room  where  were  the 
books  of  Jewish  history  and  law,  and  the 
bearded  rabbis.  Sometimes,  sitting  on  her 
stool,  she  would  pore  over  some  huge 
book,  and  then  talk  quaintly  about  it  as 
Enoch  led  her  home.  It  was  often  strange 
old  Talmudic  tales,  full  of  dramatic  narra 
tive  or  of  humor,  that  she  read,  and  the 
people  and  the  happenings  in  the  stories 
were  as  real  to  her  as  what  she  saw  about 
her  on  the  crowded  streets.  And  in  those 
streets  she  saw  much  of  beauty — beauty  of 
sound  and  of  sight.  Where,  for  example, 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA       227 

Enoch  saw  a  woman  toiling  through  the 
street,  bending  beneath  a  huge  bundle  of 
sewing,  for  which,  he  knew,  she  would  re 
ceive,  perhaps,  no  more  than  twenty-five 
cents,  Selma  saw  the  curve  of  the  wom 
an's  shoulders  as  having  an  odd  graceful 
ness,  and  she  noted  the  contrasting  colors 
of  her  gown  and  shawl,  and  it  made  an  at 
tractive  picture  in  her  eyes.  The  lights 
in  the  shop  windows,  the  shouts  of  the 
children,  the  rumble  and  murmur  of  it  all, 
were  parts  of  a  pleasant  show,  in  which, 
walking  demurely  with  big  Enoch,  she 
could  herself  be  a  part.  Her  father  was 
well  to  do,  her  home  was  comfortable,  she 
was  kind-hearted  and  impulsive  to  help, 
but  her  parents  had  kept  her,  as  much  as 
possible,  from  the  knowledge  of  actual 
misery.  Her  dreamy  connection  with  the 
book-room  and  the  rabbis  lent  a  marked 
touch  of  unreality  to  her  life. 

Enoch  liked  Abraham  Weid*berg,  for  he 
recognized  in  the  man  a  practical  shrewd 
ness  that,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  might  be 
turned  to  good  account  in  a  movement  for 
the  bettering  of  the  condition  of  the  ten 
ement  Hebrews. 


228      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

As  Selma  approached  young  woman 
hood,  and  her  visits  to  the  room  of  the 
rabbis  almost  ceased,  she  came  to  prize  the 
evenings  on  which  Enoch  looked  in  at 
their  home.  Her  father  and  Enoch  dis 
cussed  with  eager  enthusiasm  problems  of 
life  and  possible  reforms;  while  her  moth 
er,  a  fine-looking,  sombre-eyed  woman,  sat 
mostly  silent.  Selma,  equally  silent,  sat 
by  her  side,  and  each  was  usually  engaged 
in  sewing  on  some  homely  household  gar 
ment. 

Rebecca  Weidberg  was  a  Galician  Jew 
ess,  and  among  Selma's  earliest  recollec 
tions  were  those  connected  with  the  huge 
wig  that  her  mother  wore  ;  for  the  staid 
Jewish  woman  had  yielded  unquestioning- 
ly,  at  her  marriage,  to  the  iron  rule  that 
required — as  it  had  required  of  the  women 
of  her  branch  of  Hebrews  for  centuries — 
that  the  hair  of  a  bride  be  clipped  or 
shaven  close. 

There  gradually  became  more  and  more 
fixed  in  Selma's  mind,  a  feeling  of  deep 
love  for  her  people  and  her  religion,  but 
there  also  came  a  sad  feeling  that  there 
was  something  stronger  in  life — that  her 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      229 

religion  and  her  people  must  remain  in 
the  condition  from  which  Enoch  Heimann 
was  so  anxious  to  free  them.  Following 
the  idea  of  Enoch,  she  had  come  to  think 
of  her  race  as  comprising  only  the  thou 
sands  who  struggled  with  the  problems  of 
life  in  the  tenement  districts  :  the  rich  He 
brews  of  the  city  were  not  of  them  :  she 
began  to  learn  the  misery  of  the  tene 
ments,  too,  and  her  heart  overflowed  with 
commiseration. 

She  was  educated  at  the  public  school 
of  her  district,  and  sent  for  two  terms  to  a 
large  musical  school  on  the  East  Side, 
where  she,  and  many  like  her,  were  for  low 
fees  taught  to  play  and  sing.  VVeidberg 
even  purchased  a  piano  for  her  (in  many  of 
the  tenements  there  are  pianos  or  flutes  or 
violins),  and  in  a  simple  way  she  could 
play.  Enoch  liked  to  hear  her,  and  usu 
ally,  after  the  discussion  of  social  problems 
with  the  father,  he  would  ask  that  Selma 
play,  whereupon  the  girl  would  shyly  do 
so. 

What,  more  than  anything  else,  gave 
Selma  the  feeling  that  her  race  and  her 
religion  must  yield  to  other  forces,  came 


230       A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 


to  her  through  her  visits  to  the  old  Jewish 
burying-ground  on  West  Eleventh  Street. 
When  she  was  a  very  little  girl,  her  father 
led  her  far  over  there, 
on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  city  from  where  she 
lived,  and  he  pointed 
out  what  was  left  of  the 
burying-ground,  and 
she  peered  between  the 
iron  bars  of  the  fence 
in  reverential  awe. 
Buildings  closely 
hemmed  in  the  trian 
gular  bit  of  ground, 
crowded  with  time- 
stained  stones,  and  her 
father  told  her  that,  al 
though  rich  men  were 
eager  to  buy  the  little  bit  of  land, 
and  willing  to  pay  a  great  sum  for  it, 
no  amount  of  money,  however  great, 
could  purchase  it,  so  strong  was  the 
enduring  observance,  on  the  part  of 
the  Hebrew  sect,  whose  dead  lay 
there,  of  their  rule  that  no  dead  body 
should  ever  be  removed,  no  burying- 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA       231 

ground  desecrated.  The  roar  of  traffic 
from  Sixth  Avenue,  which  was  but  a  few 
rods  away,  increased  the  reverence  with 
which  she  regarded  the  infinitesimal  tri 
angle. 

It  was  not  till  long  afterward  that  she 
realized  what  gave  her  mind  a  more  sad 
dening  bias.  It  came  to  her,  one  day,  with 
a  painful  shock.  It  was,  that  part  of  the 
burying  ground  had  already  been  removed  ! 

"  Yes,"  her  father  said,  "  but  that  was 
for  the  street,  my  child.  There  had  to  be 
a  street  cut  through,  and  of  course  the 
city  took  the  necessary  land." 

Selma  could  not  understand  how  her 
father  could  look  on  the  fact  thus  calmly. 
There,  where  graves  had  been,  ran  the 
smooth  street,  with  its  asphalt  pavements, 
its  stone  sidewalks,  its  traffic,  its  wagons, 
its  quick-stepping  pedestrians.  It  was  a 
thing  for  Jews  to  be  proud  of,  that  money 
could  not  purchase  the  patch  that  was  left : 
but  there  was  crushing  inexorability  in  the 
fact  that,  after  all,  there  was  a  power  that 
could  do  as  it  pleased  with  it. 

The  smooth,  hard  streets,  the  iron  power 
that  had  cut  the  burying-ground  in  twain, 


232      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

appalled  her.  The  idea  fixed  itself,  and 
became,  so  she  felt,  ineradicable,  that  it  is 
useless  to  fight  against  the  power  that  ex 
ists,  against  things  as  they  are.  Much  as 
she  admired  the  handsome  Enoch,  she 
could  only  feel  that  he  was  in  error  when 
he  talked  of  proposed  reforms  and  changes 
and  the  altering  of  conditions.  She 
thought  of  the  remorselessness  of  the  hard 
pavements,  a-nd  of  the  crushing  power  of 
existing  conditions. 

And  yet,  although  her  feelings  were  thus 
enlisted  against  Enoch's  views,  she  could 
not  but  feel  a  thrill  of  admiration  when 
she  heard  him  talk  of  uniting  all  of  the 
Jews  of  the  East  Side  in  a  great  league — a 
league  that  should  control  labor,  and  prices, 
and  hours  of  work,  and  should  combine 
Hebrews  of  all  trades  and  sects  and  nation 
alities. 

She  knew  that  she  loved  Enoch,  but  it 
was  as  if  he  were  her  brother.  She  had 
never  had  either  a  brother  or  sister,  and 
Enoch  had  therefore  the  more  easily  in 
corporated  himself  with  the  most  precious 
portion  of  her  life. 

Selma  grew  to  be    very    beautiful,  but 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA       233 

not  with  the  beauty  of  her  Jewish  friends, 
or  after  the  type  of  either  of  her  parents. 
Her  hair  was  brownish  black.  That,  too, 
was  the  color  of  her  eyes.  Her  face  was 
dark,  but  of  a  creamy  tint.  Her  nose  was 
straight.  Her  mouth  was  sweet  and  firm. 
When  she  smiled,  her  face  lit  up  in  an  ex 
quisite  glow.  And  Enoch  came  to  love 
her  dearly. 

Frequently  did  he  try  to  get  her  to  take 
a  share  in  the  discussions,  but  rarely  could 
she  be  induced  to  do  so.  She,  like  her 
mother,  sat  silent,  and  listened  to  the  men. 

Time  passed,  and,  although  Selma  was 
still  young,  her  mother  began  to  think 
seriously  of  her  marriage,  and  the  girl's 
great  beauty  promised  possibilities  of 
marked  advancement  through  the  event. 
But  Weidberg  always  checked  her,  with 
jealous  crustiness,  when  she  hinted  at  any 
change  in  Selma's  way  of  life. 

"  The  girl  is  happy  with  us ;  let  that 
suffice,"  was  all  that  he  would  say. 

It  was  on  a  bright  Summer  afternoon 
that  there  came  to  Selma  a  poignant  shock. 
She  learned  that  her  mother  was  ill,  and 
that  there  was  no  hope  for  her  recovery. 


234      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

Mrs.  Weidberg  had  never  been  strong,  and 
an  insidious  disease  had  finally  attacked 
her,  and  henceforth  she  was  sure  steadily  to 
fail.  The  illness  had  come  upon  her  some 
months  before,  but  the  fact  had  been  kept 
from  the  daughter's  knowledge  till  con 
cealment  was  deemed  no  longer  either  pos 
sible  or  advisable. 

With  the  knowledge  of  the  fate  that 
hung  over  her  mother,  there  came  to  the 
girl  an  explanation  of  a  change  that  she 
had  noticed  in  Weidberg  himself.  His 
manner  had  been  gradually  altering.  He 
had  ceased  to  take  delight  in  the  discussion 
of  abstruse  points  with  his  colleagues.  He 
had  come  to  dislike  the  presence  of  Enoch, 
and  the  young  man  found  him  petulant, 
dogmatic,  and  rude.  There  were  times 
when  the  girl  flushed  for  her  father's  con 
duct. 

On  several  occasions  Heimann,  in  pained 
mortification,  left  after  the  briefest  possi 
ble  call,  and  Weidberg  would  growl  out, 
after  his  departure  :  "  The  man  is  tiresome. 
He  is  impertinent,  too,  in  setting  his  ideas 
against  those  of  his  elders.  Selma  has  al 
ways  been  right  in  liking  the  society  and 


A    PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      235 

the  learning  of  elder  men.  The  talk  of 
that  Heimann  is  like  the  sound  of  a  shutter 
rattling  in  the  wind." 

Now  Selma  thought  she  understood  the 
reason  for  her  father's  conduct:  it  must  be 
because  of  his  knowledge  of  the  inevita 
ble  fate  of  his  wife :  and,  thinking  thus, 
the  girl  was  very  patient  with  him,  and 
gave  him  more  of  love  and  tenderness. 

The  end  came  without  warning,  one 
dreary  day,  when  neither  the  husband  nor 
the  daughter  was  at  home,  and  the  grief  of 
the  girl  was  something  pitiful.  Stolid  and 
dry-eyed — but  in  his  eyes  there  burned 
a  lurid  light — the  man  tried  to  comfort 
her.  His  nature  had  long  since  changed. 
Suddenly,  with  this  affliction,  his  voice 
changed,  and  he  spoke  with  a  harsh  rau- 
cousness,  that  he  tried  to  make  loving. 

"  Selma,  it  had  to  be.  It  is  better  that 
Rebecca  thus  ceased  from  sorrow  and  pain. 
Yes ;  it  is  better.  But  I  shall  make  my 
Selma  happy." 

To  his  croaking  consolation  she  could 
not  reply.  Friends  came,  and  offered  their 
services  ;  the  funeral  was  one  of  sober  dis 
tinction  :  and  then  Selma  and  her  father 


236      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

returned  to  the  house  where  death  had 
come. 

The  period  of  mourning,  the  eight  days 
of  Shiva,  began  with  a  strange  unrest  on 
the  part  of  the  father,  with  a  passion  of 
weeping  on  the  part  of  the  child.  In  the 
front  room,  overlooking  the  crowds  and 
the  never-ceasing  bustle  of  Stanton  Street, 
the  two  sat.  There  was  no  other  near  of 
kin,  and  hence  the  two  sat  solitary. 

"  See  ! "  said  an  Armenian  woman, 
whose  windows,  across  the  street,  com 
manded  those  of  the  Weidbergs.  "  See ! 
The  Jews  sit  without  their  shoes.  All  the 
day  through,  and  day  after  day,  they  sit 
so.  And  they  will  not  use  the  chairs,  but 
are  seated  on  the  floor !  " 

Thus,  indeed,  as  demanded  by  custom, 
did  Abraham  and  Selma  Weidberg  sit  in 
mourning.  For  hour  after  hour  they 
wearily  sat  in  the  same  room,  only  to 
separate  at  night,  and  take  up  the  re 
newed  vigil  at  dawn.  When  they  ate,  they 
either  stood  or  remained  seated  on  the  floor. 
They  could  not  go  from  the  house  until  the 
days  of  Shiva  were  fully  numbered. 

Twelve  acquaintances,  the  greater  part 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      237 

being  rabbis  from  the  book-room,  came 
every  evening  and  solemnly  intoned  pray 
ers.  The  kindly  old  men  tried  to  comfort 
the  pair,  and  Selma's  heart  was  lifted 
somewhat  out  of  its  sadness.  They  spoke 
gravely  of  the  problems  of  death  and  im 
mortality,  and  then  with  gentle  kindness 
talked  with  the  stricken  girl. 

The  rabbis  spoke  of  their  comrade  as 
they  gathered  in  their  dusky  room.  "  He 
acts  as  if  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit,"  said 
the  grayest  and  oldest  of  them  all,  gloom 
ily  shaking  his  head. 

"  Yes,  and  did  you  not  mark  how  his 
eyes  glowed  as  if  with  fever,  how  his 
fingers  twitched,  and  how  his  face  burned 
hot?"  said  another. 

Enoch  went,  taking  off  his  shoes  as  he 
entered,  and  seating  himself  in  sober  sym 
pathy.  But  Weidberg  snapped  at  him,  in 
sharpened  words,  and  gibed  and  glowered  ; 
and  the  young  man,  pained  and  silent,  went 
away.  Selma  barely  looked  at  him,  and 
he  could  not  know  how  strongly  she  hoped 
he  would  overlook  it  all,  and  ascribe  her 
father's  conduct  to  his  grief. 

Day  after  day  went  slowly  by.     Once 


238      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

in  a  while  an  acquaintance  came  in,  and 
sat,  shoeless  and  commiserating.  On  the 
morning  of  the  sixth  day  Selma  noticed 
that  her  father  was  more  than  ever  flushed, 
more  nerve-shaken,  more  unlike  his  former 
self.  He  sat  silent,  gazing  straight  down 
at  the  floor :  and  when  at  length  he  raised 
his  eyes,  and  looked  at  her,  they  were  red 
and  bloodshot.  He  began  to  murmur,  in 
mumbling  words,  and  she  caught  a  few 
disjointed  sentences  from  the  Song  of 
Solomon  : 

"  Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my  love ;  thy 
lips  are  like  a  thread  of  scarlet ;  behold, 
thou  art  fair." 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  came 
the  word,  hoarsely  croaked  : 

"  Selma  !  " 

"  Yes,  my  father."  The  girl  felt  a  sense 
of  oppression. 

"  There  is  something,  Selma,  that  I  wish 
to  tell  you.  Rebecca  and  myself  spoke 
often  of  it.  We  wondered  if  you  ought 
to  know." 

He  spoke  clumsily,  heavily,  awkwardly. 
She  did  not  reply,  but  looked  at  him  in 
wonder.  His  face  flushed  more  red.  He 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      239 

turned  his  eyes  away,  after  shiftily  trying 
to  meet  her  glance. 

"  You — you — were  not  our  child.  You 
were,  the  child  of  parents  who  could  not 
care  for  you.  And — and — we  were  child 
less " 

He  ended  with  an  almost  unintelligible 
mumble.  She  sat  rigid,  horror-struck. 
He  moved  restlessly,  and  slantwise  turned 
his  eyes  on  her.  Her  words  came  like  a 
cry  of  pain. 

"  Why,  oh,  why,  do  you  tell  me  such  a 
thing  at  such  a  time  ?  " 

"Selma!  Have  pity  on  me;  I  could 
not  wait — could  not  but  speak.  Jacob 
worked  and  waited  for  seven  years,  and 
then  for  still  another  seven  ;  but  Jacob 
lived  in  an  age  when  men  counted  their 
lifetime  by  centuries,  and  seven  years  was 
but  a  fragment.  And  I  shall  soon  be  get 
ting  old,  my  Selma;  and  I  felt  that  I 
must  tell  you — and  must  know " 

"Must  know!"  she  whispered.  "  I— 
don't — understand."  She  shivered  and 
shrunk  away  from  him. 

"  I  want  you  to  take  the  place — of — 
Rebecca,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 


240      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

The  self-control  of  the  girl  broke  down. 
"Oh,  mother!  Mother!  For  you  were 
my  mother  !  In  all  right  you  were — you 
were  indeed !" 

Weidberg  hunched  himself,  meanly,  and 
slunk  a  little  away  from  her,  with  a  craven 
gesture. 


There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
Enoch  entered.  Weidberg  spoke  to  him 
with  savage  coarseness.  "  Why  do  you 
disturb  us  ?  How  dare  you  intrude  at 
such  a  time  ?  Go  !  " 

Without    a   word,    Enoch    went   away. 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA       241 

The  girl  only  wept.  There,  until  night 
fall,  the  two  sat  together;  the  man,  with 
his  head  bowed  and  his  face  hidden ;  the 
girl,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands, 
and  her  mind  revolving  humiliating 
thoughts. 

"  Those  Jews  !  "  observed  the  Armenian 
woman.  "They  are  so  strange!  Their 
grief  is  greater  than  at  the  beginning !  " 

The  final  days  of  Shiva  were  a  time  of 
unspeakable  horror  to  Selma.  Weidberg 
sat  in  self-condemnatory  misery.  He  did 
not  blame  himself  for  caring  for  Selma. 
That,  he  thought,  was  proper.  But  he 
was  stung  with  fierce  self-loathing  that, 
hurried  on  by  the  warmth  of  his  passion, 
he  should  have  spoken  to  her  in  such  a 
way  and  at  such  a  time.  And  he  knew 
that  Selma  loathed  him. 

From  the  moment  of  his  announcement 
that  she  was  not  their  child,  she  felt  that 
she  must  none  the  less  sit  out  the  appoint 
ed  days  of  mourning.  Rebecca  Weidberg 
had  been  as  a  loving  mother  to  her.  She 
would  not  shrink  from  giving  her  memory 
the  fullest  measure  of  respect,  even  though 
she  must  have  Weidberg  beside  her. 


242       A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

Hour  after  hour,  and  without  exchang 
ing  a  word  between  them,  they  sat  through 
what  was  left  of  the  time  of  Shiva.  He 
watched  her,  at  times,  furtively,  hungrily, 
hopelessly.  She  sat  in  black  misery. 
When  friends  came  quietly  in  and  sat  to 
mourn  with  them,  the  two  spoke  in  the 
briefest  possible  way,  and  the  friends  sor 
rowfully  sympathized  with  them  in  what 
seemed  only  the  deepest  grief.  Toward 
the  close  of  the  eighth  day  Weidberg  said, 
huskily : 

"  I  was  wrong,  Selma.  It  was  a  painful 
mistake  that  I  made.  But  I  meant  to 
treat  you  only  with  honor.  And  I  forgot 
myself  and  made  a  sad  mistake." 

She  flashed  a  look  of  scorn  at  him.  He 
quailed  under  it,  but  went  on  : 

"  I  will  treat  you  the  best  I  can.  Your 
mother — your  real  mother — is  alive.  I 
can  tell  you  where  you  may  find  her." 

"  Do  not  tell  me  !  She  cast  me  off ! 
This — this  was  my  real  mother  !  Tell  me 
nothing  of  the  other !  I  would  not  go 
near  her,  for  either  a  crust  of  bread  or  a 
drop  of  water  or  a  word  of  comfort !  Say 
nothing  to  me  of  her  !  " 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      243 

"  Of  course,  then,  you  will  stay  with 
me,  here " 

"  With  you  !  Not  a  moment !  Not  an 
instant,  after  the  time  of  Shiva  is  ended !  " 

Her  vehemence  amazed  him,  but  he 
pulled  himself  together,  sat  more  erect, 
and  spoke  more  calmly.  His  manliness 
was  coming  back.  His  dream  was  over. 

"  I  feared  you  would  not,  though  I 
hoped  you  would.  Well,  I  shall  see  to  it 
that,  whatever  you  plan  to  do,  you  will 
not  suffer  for  my  moment  of  weakness. 
You  need  not  even  see  me  again,  if  you 
continue  to  hate  me.  I  can  wait  till  you 
forgive  me.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  send,  to 
any  friend  with  whom  you  wish  to  stay, 
enough  of  money  to  keep  you  in  happi 
ness  and  comfort." 

"  Money  !  And  from  you  !  Not  a 
cent! "the  girl  flashed  out.  "I  will  not 
touch  your  money  !  You  shall  not  even 
know  where  I  am  ! " 

"  You  must  think  better  of  all  this,"  he 
responded,  gravely.  "  I  made  a  mistake. 
I  shall  suffer  for  it.  But  you  must  let  me 
help  you  and  care  for  you." 

But  when  the  time  of  Shiva  was  con- 


244      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

eluded,  Selma  went  away.  Weidberg,  in 
dumb  misery,  watched  her  as  she  made 
her  little  preparations. 

"  You  will  not  tell  me  where  you  are 
going  ?  " 

"  No.  I  cannot.  I — I  thank  you  for 
your  years  of  care.  And — I  am  sorry  that 
it  must  be  so  hard  a  farewell.  But  it 
must  be  good-by." 

"  Selma!  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  go  out 
into  the  world  alone.  Do  not  make  me 
responsible  for  that  ! "  cried  Weidberg. 
"  You  are  trying  to  punish  me  !  But  do 
not  go  alone  !  It  is  an  awful  world  !  You 
need  never  see  me,  but  take  money — take 
it — and  say  that  you  will  send  for  more  !  " 

Selma  softened  a  little  toward  him,  yet 
did  not  for  a  moment  falter  in  her  deter 
mination.  Her  own  firmness,  her  set  re 
solve,  astonished  and  almost  frightened 
her.  She  was  glad  of  the  strength  that 
enabled  her  to  hold  to  the  way  that  she 
had  marked  out,  and  yet,  when  it  came  to 
the  actual  moment  of  leaving,  she  could 
not  but  feel  some  sympathy  with  the  man 
who  begged  her,  so  frantically,  to  stay. 

"  You  must  not  fear  for  me.     I  shall  be 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      245 

safe  and  well.  I  have  planned  it  all,  care 
fully,  during  these  last  long  hours.  I  am 
sorry  to  have  to  leave  in  this  way,  but  it 
will  be  for  the  best.  And  so — good-by." 

She  slipped  quietly  away.  In  a  few 
moments  he  wildly  followed.  He  caught 
sight  of  her  at  a  distance  and  hastened 
after  her,  but  she  had  feared  he  would  at 
tempt  this,  and  stepped  with  a  quickness 
that  he  could  not  rival.  He  lost  her,  and 
returned  to  his  empty  rooms. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  the  Armenian  woman. 
"The  daughter  grieves  no  longer;  but  the 
father,  he  tears  his  hair  and  his  beard  ! " 

Selma  went  direct  to  a  friend,  a  young 
Jewess  whom  she  had  met  at  the  syna 
gogue  and  for  whom  she  had  conceived  a 
strong  liking.  The  girl  lived  with  her 
mother,  a  widow,  far  over  toward  the  East 
River,  on  Houston  Street,  and  both  of 
them  sewed  for  a  bare  pittance.  The 
mother  worked  on  coats,  and  the  girl  on 
shirts.  They  welcomed  the  drear -eyed 
girl  cordially,  and  when  she  told  her  tale, 
asked  for  practical  advice,  and  begged  to 
stay  with  them,  they  at  once  agreed  to 
care  for  her.  They  saw  the  justice,  too, 


246      A    PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

of  her  request  to  keep  secret  the  fact  that 
she  was  staying  with  them,  and  they  over 
whelmed  her  with  sympathy. 

Through  their  pilotage,  Selma  secured 
sewing-work.  She  began  upon  it  with  a 
vigor  that  amazed  them,  for  they  knew 
that  thus  far  in  her  life  she  had  known 
nothing  of  real  toil.  Early  in  the  morning 
she  would  arise,  and  would  work  till  late 
at  night.  To  aid  her  in  maintaining  her 
hiding-place  as  a  secret,  either  the  mother 
or  daughter,  for  a  long  time,  carried  Sel- 
ma's  sewing  to  the  shop.  Selma,  too, 
never  went  to  her  own  synagogue,  but  on 
the  Sabbath  worshipped  in  another  section 
of  the  city. 

Weeks  and  months  went  uneventfully 
by.  She  did  not  meet  a  single  one  of 
her  former  acquaintances.  She  oftenest 
thought  of  Enoch,  and  loved  to  hear  her 
two  friends  talk  of  him.  She  did  not 
know  that  he  was  torn  with  anxiety  about 
her;  that  even  in  the  midst  of  his  most 
important  duties,  or  his  dearest  plans,  he 
thought  and  thought  of  her.  She  did  not 
know  that  he  loved  her,  and  deeply. 

He  had  never  declared  his  love,  for  he 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      247 

had  long  hesitated,  while  she  was  but  a 
girl,  fearing  to  speak  at  a  time  when  she 
was  not  old  enough  to  decide  so  momen 
tous  a  question,  and  dreading  the  possibil 
ity  of  taking  advantage  of  her  inexperi 
ence  and  securing  an  answer  that  she  might 
regret  when  older.  And  then,  when  he 
had  at  length  decided  that  he  could  speak, 
her  father  began  a  course  of  such  rudeness 
of  treatment  as  made  him  pause.  He 
could  not  understand  what  lay  behind  it. 

Now,  Enoch  had  not  the  slightest  idea 
where  Selma  was,  or  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  she  had  left  her  father's  home. 
Weidberg,  dull  and  dry  and  bitter,  would 
tell  him  nothing.  Enoch  could  only  sus 
pect,  and  he  never  suspected  the  truth. 
Nor  could  he  suspect  with  what  an  agony 
of  expectation  the  father  watched  for  a  let 
ter  or  a  message  that  never  came. 

In  her  work,  Selma  learned,  with  a 
down-sinking  heart,  that  for  a  long  time 
her  unskilled  fingers  would  not  let  her 
earn  more  than  twenty-five  or  thirty  cents 
a  day.  She  had  always  been  a  seamstress, 
at  home,  but  the  gentle  household  sewing 
had  not  prepared  her  for  the  fierce  swift- 


248       A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

ness  that  was  necessary  to  earn  even  a 
pittance.  After  a  while,  by  the  hardest 
kind  of  work  and  greatly  increased  skill, 
she  was  able  to  earn  forty  cents  each  day, 
and  began  to  feel  almost  happy. 

To  take  advantage  of  a  chance  to  earn 
perhaps  forty-five  cents  a  day  (for  her 
native  skill  and  perseverance  were  telling 
in  her  favor),  she  at  length  agreed  to  go 
daily  to  the  shop  of  the  company  that 
took  her  work.  Nearly  a  year  had  passed 
since  leaving  her  father,  and  New  York 
streets  were  so  filled  with  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  people,  that  she  thought  she 
could  avoid  recognition.  And  even  if  he 
should  meet  her,  why,  he  could  not  annoy 
her,  after  all.  She  was  not  his  child  ! 

And  if  she  should  meet  Enoch  ?  But 
she  dared  not  think  of  this.  Why  had  he 
not  found  her,  if  he  wanted  to  see  her,  she 
asked  herself,  with  feminin,e  illogicalness. 

Through  denying  herself  all  chances  of 
friendly  acquaintanceship,  she  was  more 
lonely  and  more  unhappy  than  were  most 
of  the  women  who,  like  herself,  labored  at 
sweat-shop  toil  for  infinitesimal  wages. 
Perhaps  it  was  well  for  her  that  she  was 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      249 

busy  for  so  many  hours  of  every  day,  for 
at  least  it  kept  her  from  a  certain  amount 
of  brooding. 

And  she  came,  gradually,  to  see  the 
justice  of  the  ideas  of  Enoch  Heimann. 
She  saw  what  an  uplifting,  what  a  freeing, 
was  needed.  In  her  own  case,  she  felt  too 
dependent  on  her  daily  toil,  too  anxious 
for  the  pittance  that  she  earned,  to  dare 
join  in  urging  rebellion,  but  before  the 
year  was  up  she  came  to  have  the  keen 
est  fellow-feeling  with  those  who  were  try 
ing  to  better  the  conditions  under  which 
so  many  thousands  of  men  and  women 
worked. 

And  finally  there  came  a  great  strike, 
which  affected  not  only  her  own  establish 
ment  but  scores  of  others.  And,  the 
strike  once  begun,  Selma  felt  a  burning 
desire  for  its  success.  If  the  sweat-shop 
workers  should  win,  why,  she  might  make 
ten  cents  more,  every  day,  or  five  at  the 
least !  It  seemed  wealth  to  her. 

When  several  of  her  companions  told 
her,  one  afternoon,  that  there  was  to  be  a 
meeting,  that  night,  at  which  the  attend 
ance  would  mainly  be  that  of  men,  but  at 


250      A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

which  it  was  hoped  to  get  as  many  women 
as  possible  so  as  to  show  the  sweat-shop 
employers  that  the  women  also  stood 
hand-in-hand  in  the  struggle,  she  felt  that 
she  ought  to  go.  When  asked  to  promise, 
so  that  they  could  count  on  her,  she  said, 
yes,  she  would  be  one  of  them.  A  dozen 
or  so  were  to  meet  together  and  go  in  a 
body.  Other  dozens  of  the  women  work 
ers  were  to  be  similarly  organized. 

Not  till  she  was  on  the  way  to  the 
meeting  did  Selma  learn  that  it  was  to 
be  at  the  old  building  on  Orchard  Street, 
and  for  a  moment  her  courage  failed  her. 
Then,  but  with  a  new  glow  at  her  heart, 
she  went  on. 

The  women  were  led  to  seats  near  the 
front.  The  hall  was  packed  to  suffocation. 
The  low-ceilinged  room  held  the  people 
in  a  stifling  heat.  It  was  a  summer  night, 
torrid  anywhere,  even  outside,  and  with 
out  a  breath  of  wind  blowing  in  at  the 
windows.  Men  and  women  gasped  for 
air,  yet  new  arrivals  constantly  pressed  in 
from  the  street,  packing  those  who  filled 
the  jammed  aisles  still  farther  toward  the 
platform.  The  encompassing  mirrors  re- 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA       251 

fleeted  multifarious  misery,  yet  also  multi 
farious  determination. 

Each  speaker  faced  a  throng  of  eager 
listeners,  who  cheered  and  shouted  and 
stamped  their  feet  and  excitedly  called 
out  strange  ejaculations.  It  was  seething 
humanity — seething  physically,  and  seeth 
ing  mentally  as  well.  Many  were  the 
dour  and  haggard  faces  that  were  there. 

oo 

And  Selma  ?  She  was  thinking  of  how, 
long,  long  ago,  she  had  listened  to  cheers 
and  stampings  from  this  very  hall.  Were 
the  kindly  old  rabbis  still  up  in  the  dusky 
book-room  ?  Perhaps,  some  time  in  the 
evening  Enoch  Heimann  would  be  there, 
too.  A  sudden  burst  of  tears  made  her 
bow  her  head,  and  as  she  quietly  sobbed 
there  came  a  tremendous  burst  of  applause, 
welcoming  a  new  speaker.  He  had  just 
arrived,  and,  being  unable  to  get  through 
the  crowd,  had  come  in  at  a  window.  As 
the  roar  of  applause  died  down,  and  the 
speaker  uttered  his  first  word,  Selma  looked 
up.  It  was  Heimann  himself. 

He  thrilled  his  hearers.  With  alternate 
fervor  and  sadness  he  drew  pictures  of 
their  lot.  He  urged  them  to  stand  to- 


252       A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA 

gether  for  relief  from  sweat-shop  tyranny. 
And  the  people  shouted  and  clapped,  and 
some  waved  their  arms  in  excitement,  and 
some  wept. 

It  was  as  he  was  beginning  the  main 
swing  of  his  address  that  he  caught  sight 
of  Selma — sad-faced,  poorly  dressed,  hag 
gard — but  the  same  Selma !  But  he  could 
not  think  of  her  till  his  speech  was  over — 
could  not  think  of  her,  except  to  talk  to 
her  in  his  eloquence,  and  show  that  the 
established  order  of  things,  so  far  as  it 
related  to  the  condition  and  pay  of  the 
myriad  garment-workers  of  the  East  Side, 
was  vitally  wrong,  and  that  if  a  great 
league  could  be  formed  it  might  be  capable 
of  far-reaching  good. 

And  Selma  agreed  with  all  that  he 
said.  Misery  had  taught  her  that.  Yes. 
She  was  ready  to  forget  all  she  had  ever 
believed  of  submission  to  the  power  that 
exists. 

And  how  strong  and  handsome  Enoch 
was!  Then  came  another  burst  of  tears, 
for  her  year  of  privation  and  loneliness 
had  sadly  weakened  her. 

Somehow,  then,  as  she   bent   her  face 


A   PROPOSAL   DURING   SHIVA      253 


forward  into  her  hands,  she  forgot  that 
she  was  in  a  crowd.  She  forgot  that  she 
was  a  sweat-shop  striker.  She  listened  to 
Enoch's  voice;  and  all  she  saw  was  the 
dusky  dimness  of  the 
book-room,  and  the 
quiet  walks  homeward, 
with  her  hand  laid  trust 
ingly  in  his. 

She  did  not  know 
that  the  meeting  was 
over.  She  only  knew 
that  Enoch  had  stopped 
talking,  and  that  there 
was  a  hoarse  roar  of 
shouts.  She  did  not 
know  that  there  was  a 
rush  of  people  to  gather 
around  the  speaker,  to 
grasp  him  by  the  hand, 
to  tell  him  how  well  he 
had  interpreted  their 
conditions  and  their 
needs. 

She  found  herself  in  a  solid  wedge  of 
people,  slowly  pushing  toward  the  door. 
Her  heart  sank  bitterly.  Was  it  all  to 


254      A  PROPOSAL   DURING  SHIVA 

end  thus  ?  Were  the  future  years  to  be 
but  repetitions  of  the  year  just  past  ? 

There  was  a  parting  of  the  people  about 
her.  A  voice  was  in  her  ear. 

"Selma!" 

"  Enoch  !  " 

It  did  not  seem  necessary  to  say  any 
thing  more.  She  never  doubted  but  that 
Enoch  must  understand  it  all.  He  took 
her  hand  and  held  it  firmly  in  his.  "  It  is 
long  since  we  walked  home  together,"  he 
said. 

He  was  so  loving,  and  yet  so  masterful. 
She  sighed  contentedly.  "  Yes.  It  is  a 
long  time,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  But  I  will  not  lose  you  again,  my 
Selma!  We  shall  always  walk  home  to 
gether  !  Always !  Is  it  not  so,  my 
Selma  ?  " 

And  again  she  gave  a  little  sigh  of  per 
fect  contentment. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  097  992     2 


